


Aliens and Army Doctors

by Commaeleons



Series: Space Octopus Blob [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alien Biology, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Case Fic, F/M, M/M, Politics, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 212,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Commaeleons/pseuds/Commaeleons
Summary: The Holmeses are members of an alien race who come to Earth. John becomes the de facto representative for humanity. A story of mystery, war, politics, love, and above all family.Or: The one where Sherlock is a space octopus and everyone needs a hug now and then.AU running (mostly) parallel to BBC canon through The Great Game and then diverging wildly.
Relationships: Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Space Octopus Blob [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699981
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Strange Encounters of the Holmesian Kind

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt on the [BBC Sherlock kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=42219404#t42219404). After several years of planning to rewrite the first several chapters, I am admitting defeat and posting it in a much more readable format than the original LJ comments ;)
> 
> That said, there are a variety of internalized -isms that my younger self hadn't started working through yet, and most of them find their ways into this fic in some form or another. I did plan to go through and rewrite the more questionable bits, but.... as is, please just join me in a collective "yikes" whenever one pops up <3 (relatedly, this is why I marked "chose not to warn" for the archive warnings: while I don't _think_ that there is any content that requires an archive warning, I literally do not remember well enough to be sure XD)
> 
> I want to thank the OP for such a fabulous prompt, all of the readers who cheered me on and offered great suggestions during the writing process, and especially my beta, JBS_Teeth, who took on the herculean task of helping me shape, complete, and edit this behemoth. You guys are amazing!!! <333

_Whumph._   
  
John startled and glanced over his shoulder, crouching down behind the bluff. The shockwave had actually shaken the ground beneath him, but it didn’t feel like the concussive force of an explosion. In the near distance, gunfire continued to ratchet through the pre-dawn darkness. No one else seemed to have noticed whatever it was that had made the sound; John’s own regiment had drifted almost a kilometre further on.   
  
A weak groan from under John’s hands brought his attention back to the soldier lying wounded on the cool sands. “Easy,” John soothed, putting pressure on the gunshot wound with one hand as he reached for his kit with his other. “Stay with me; you’re going to be alright.” The wound was a bad one, and John cursed his moment’s distraction silently as he scrambled for plasters. The thin pulse around his fingers, buried in the soldier’s shoulder, told him that every moment counted in this battle. As the soldier convulsed and gasped out a curse, John knew that the seconds of distraction had cost the man his life.   
  
_Too much blood on the sand,_ John thought frantically, wrapping the plasters as quickly as he could. _He’s not going to make it._ “I need you to calm down,” he said aloud. “Focus on breathing; try to keep it steady. Stay with me.”   
  
And he did. The soldier kept his eyes fixed on John’s face even as he bled out on sand stained pink by the Afghani morning sun.   
  
With a deep sigh of regret, John recorded the coordinates of the soldier’s position and turned to head back to the point of conflict. As he stood up, an air trail leading to something in the sand less than half a kilometre in the opposite direction of the battle drew his attention; it hadn’t been there before John had fallen to his knees beside the now-dead soldier.   
  
“Oh, God,” John whispered, realization dawning. “It must have been a helicopter.” It made sense: That shockwave must have been from the impact. A glance back towards the point of conflict showed him that running for reinforcements would take too long; John shouldered his kit and headed for the crash site.

* * *

Huffing, John crested the last dune and stopped dead in his tracks. There was no helicopter lying twisted at the bottom of the dune, as he had expected. Instead, the scattered wreckage of some capsuloid lay spread out before him, various parts half-buried in the loose sand. A blindingly white puddle spilled from the central piece, which had retained enough of its shape as to block John’s line of sight to its contents. John pulled his gun out as a precaution and edged down the shallow dune, glancing at each piece of wreckage as he passed it. They seemed to be made of some form of metal, and several pieces were still smoking. John glanced up at the sky incredulously. “UFOs? Really?” he half-grumbled to himself. “Unbelievable. And I thought the war was crazy enough as it was.”   
  
John stopped at the edge of the puddle and dipped the toe of his boot into it. _Must be some sort of mechanical fluid,_ he guessed. When his boot didn’t dissolve, he figured it was safe enough and walked through the pale liquid to the capsule. Gun held before him, he slipped around the side and glanced in. It was empty. When he held his hand up to the metal, palm in, he could feel the heat radiating from nearly a foot away.   
  
The capsule was approximately a metre-and-a-half in diameter, John decided as he straightened, and the inside was almost perfectly spherical. Whatever had been in it was definitely not a human. _UFO it is,_ he thought grimly and looked around the wreckage. “Hello?” he called. “Is anyone out there?” He was halfway to the edge of the puddle when the ground underneath him suddenly surged.

The impact against the suddenly solid puddle cut off John’s yelp of surprise as he found himself being dragged by his ankles. He frantically twisted around and leveled his gun at the attacker, only to have his jaw drop in shock as he realized that he was being held captive by what he’d assumed was mechanical fluid. It was no longer white, but had instead darkened to a pale shade of grey. “Christ,” John whimpered, and he fired his gun at the two tentacles holding his ankles.   
  
The report hurt his ears, but the bullet seemed to have no effect on the whatever-it-was. John kicked his feet and slammed his hands against the thing, but it held him fast and simply moved with his struggles. After several seconds John collapsed back against it and gasped for air, trying to calm his racing pulse. _Alright Watson,_ he thought hysterically, _they may not have trained you for this, but you can figure something out. Just calm down and think!_   
  
That plan fled swiftly as the not-puddle surged over him and covered him completely. John, feeling it press against every inch of him – _even inside my_ ears, _oh God is it going to eat my brain?!_ – instinctively took a breath to calm the sudden claustrophobia, but the not-puddle only took advantage of the motion to dive down his throat. It split at the laryngopharynx and filled both lungs and stomach, but John barely had time to gag before it pulled back and out. John thrashed, eyes watering at the invasion, and to his surprise the thing actually released him. John scrambled away from it and aimed his gun despite knowing its futility.   
  
The not-puddle drew itself together and _morphed,_ right in front of John’s disbelieving eyes. It grew patches of color and structured itself until John found himself staring into his own face. “What. The. Fuck,” John whispered, distantly thankful that he was already sitting. The thing had mimicked John’s dress and had a gun in its own hand, a kit identical to John’s own strapped over its shoulder. As John watched, it arranged itself in an identical pose, gun pointed at John’s head.   
  
Instinctively, John almost pulled the trigger on his own, but he remembered at the last moment the lack of effect. The alien’s gun, because at this point it could only be the alien that John had expected to find inside the capsule, might be much more effective if the alien fired it. Instead, John swallowed and lowered his gun. The alien mirrored his movements, but instead of placing the gun on the ground and lifting its hands again, it absorbed the gun back into its body.   
  
John blinked at the move, wondering if the alien even needed the gun to shoot him, before cautiously stretching a hand out. He prayed that the alien wouldn’t take it as an offensive motion and decide that maybe a gun would be a better appendage than a hand.   
  
Happily, it seemed to be content with mimicking John. It reached out as well, brushing their fingertips together. John startled slightly at the unexpected texture – something between plastic and oil – and carefully pressed his hand flat against the alien’s. A small, disbelieving smile slipped onto his face, and he glanced up at the alien’s face, amazed that he was actually _touching an alien._   
  
The alien once again copied his movements, but John saw the surface of the alien’s skin ripple and shudder. The smile slid from his lips as John withdrew his hand. The alien stopped smiling as well, but pressed forward to bring their hands together again. It rippled again, and John wondered if the alien was secreting some sort of chemical with which it would eat him. “You can’t eat me,” he informed it inanely, voice a bit higher than usual. “I’m a doctor.”

It immediately stopped its insistent pressure and simply stared at him blankly. Unsure if he was saving himself or merely sealing his doom, John continued blabbering. “I’m an army doctor. I work in the RAMC; that’s the Royal Army Medical Corps. I’m from England. And, er, we’re in Afghanistan. Which you might know. Or maybe you don’t know; you’re from outer space, right? So, er, if you want to head over to England and chat with Parliament, they can probably get you sorted out – or maybe Japan; they seem to have a thing for aliens. Especially aliens that tie people down, and _oh God what are you doing?!”_   
  
The alien had lunged forward and pressed one hand against John’s mouth; it slipped into his mouth, hollowing and flattening against tongue, cheeks, and roof. John flailed against the alien, but its other hand was wrapped around the back of his head; hitting it as hard as he could only gave him bruised knuckles. John forced himself to breathe and stop panicking; the alien hadn’t blocked his airway at all. It was just staring at him. After several seconds of blinking back and forth at each other, the alien opened and closed its mouth a few times.   
  
“You want me to talk?” John guessed. It was surprisingly easy to speak with the alien wrapped around the inside of his mouth; it moved with him and seemed completely flexible. The texture was disconcerting, and the bitterly metallic taste on his tongue was frankly revolting, but it didn’t interfere with his movements at all.   
  
John watched as the alien made the exact motions as John had, but no sound escaped. Another ripple ran over its form, and _that_ was certainly noticeable in his mouth. John narrowly avoided biting down in reflex, but he didn’t want to piss off the alien with its hand down his throat. Then again, shooting it hadn’t seemed to make a difference, so maybe it wouldn’t even notice.   
  
Wait. Down his throat. John blinked in sudden realization. The alien was trying to mimic his speech, but as he watched, the alien’s chest never moved. It wasn’t breathing. Without air flow, the glottis wouldn’t vibrate, and there could be no sound. John stared at the alien, willing it to understand as he took an exaggerated deep breath.   
  
There was no response; clearly, the alien was waiting for him to talk again so it could reevaluate its mistake. John shifted his weight onto his right hand and reached out with his left, pressing against the alien’s chest as he took another deep breath.   
  
This time the alien seemed to understand. Its chest expanded and contracted in time with John’s, and when it tried speaking again it managed an approximation of John’s “You want me to talk?” It was unbelievably eerie, hearing his own voice out of a copy of himself, but John forced the surrealism away to focus on the situation. He tugged on the appendage in his mouth, and the alien pulled it away and reformed it into a hand. John gave it a weak, shaky smile for its efforts.   
  
“Okay. First things first, I guess. Can you understand me?” he asked, leaning away from the alien.   
  
The alien dutifully repeated his words, tone almost-but-not-quite perfect, and John had to be reluctantly impressed by its ability to recreate his speech through purely visual cues. Lip-reading was pretty difficult, he knew from experience, but the alien had managed it like the professionals. Distantly, he wondered if his friend Bill, who had tried to teach him lip-reading once, could lip-read as well as the alien.   
  
_Oh my God. I forgot about the battle._ John almost wrenched his neck when he spun it around so quickly, the sounds of war suddenly filtering through to his brain. He cursed and jumped to his feet before recalling that there was an alien still sitting at his feet. He looked down at it, brain straining a bit as it realized how far it was stretching over its legs – _There’s no way I can bend that far!_ – before he forced out a mildly frantic explanation that he needed to leave and it needed to stay.

Then he felt like hitting his head against something when he realized the alien still couldn’t understand him and was just staring at him blankly. John motioned with his hands, trying to impress that it _needed to stay put, goddammit,_ as he backed away slowly. The alien seemed to understand as it remained in its physically-impossible position and watched him back over the dune. When the alien was out of sight over the rise of the dune, John breathed a sigh of relief and started running back to the point of conflict. There was no way he was going to expose an alien – possibly the ambassador of its species, and hadn’t it made a great choice of guides? – to the war.   
  
He didn’t notice the golden-tan disk that didn’t quite manage to look like sand as it slid in his wake. It wasn’t entirely his fault, though; the color blended in perfectly.


	2. To Boldly Go

John dove into the fray head-first, heading immediately to the closest wounded body he could see. It was an American soldier; he was curled on his side, clutching his right shoulder. He slid to a stop by the man’s head, fingers outstretched as he examined the soldier’s wounded shoulder. “Think I dislocated it,” the man ground out from behind gritted teeth.   
  
“Good diagnosis,” John agreed, already grabbing a sling and cravat from his kit. “You’re going to be fine, but I’m still going to flag you for transport back to your base.” He arranged the sling over the soldier’s neck and carefully drew the man’s arm through the fabric. “Try not to tense your muscles.” John secured the last flap of fabric, ignoring the soldier’s pained grunt, and tagged him for medical transport. “Take care.” He made sure the man was comfortable and glanced around the battlefield for the next wounded man.   
  
“Watson!” Murray called as John sprinted past. “Where’ve you been?” He was bent over a soldier with a bullet wound in the knee. John winced. That would be a very painful recovery.   
  
“Had another man down back a kilometre or so,” he shouted back, ducking down behind some brush to tend to a soldier whose arm had been almost completely blown off from an IED. “Hey there,” John murmured to the man, grabbing a clamp from the kit. “Looks like you’re having a pretty bad day, then?”   
  
The man was too busy screaming to respond, but he fixed his eyes on John’s face and seemed to calm somewhat. John threw a leg over the other man’s to stop the thrashing and set about stopping the bleeding, keeping up a litany of reassurance. Between John’s presence and the blood loss, the soldier stopped struggling so strongly and his screams dropped to high-pitched whines. John eventually returned to kneeling at the man’s side, pleased when he didn’t resume thrashing. “You’re doing great,” he praised. “I think you’re going to pull through just fine.”   
  
It was a lie, of course; the man would lose his arm without a doubt. Even if he survived the blood loss, he would probably suffer some psychological trauma. He would be alive to heal, both physically and mentally, though; that was the important part.   
  
The soldier’s eyes started to slip shut, and John tapped the side of his head just enough to get his attention. “No, no, don’t go to sleep on me. Stay awake; try to focus. Come on, you can make it.” The bleeding in the arm had been mostly staunched; still, the amount of blood on the sand made John nervous. “I’m flagging you for medical pick-up; just hang in there until they come.” With nothing else to do for the poor man – _a sedative will only be harmful at this point_ – John rose to his feet again and searched for the next dying man to save.

* * *

Finally, finally, the Afghani guerrillas disengaged and the fallen soldiers were carted back to base. For the infantrymen, that meant a resting period before everything went to Hell again; for Watson, Murray, and the other medical personnel, that meant that the rush to save lives was just beginning to wind down. The medical tent was still a madhouse of pained screams, shouted orders, and frantic motion an hour after the end of the battle. John reveled in the chaos and sped through the beds, assisting where he could with what he had; stitches here, digging a bullet out there, binding a broken femur so that it wouldn’t be agitated before the airlift came.   
  
When the chaos finally wore down, exhausted silence broken only by the occasional moan, John finally pulled off his gloves for the last time and washed the blood from his arms. He shucked his plastic coveralls and exited the tent. Outside, the cool desert air brushed his face and he breathed it in, almost surprised when it didn’t carry the tangy scent of blood. “Too much time in the tent,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. It didn’t take the smile from his face, though.

John patted his side, brushing his Browning for reassurance, but only met he fabric of his hip. He froze, staring down at his side where his holster was accusingly empty. Abruptly, the blood drained from his face as he remembered the alien and putting his own gun down in the sand. “Oh, Hell,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. Not only had he left an alien in the potentially hostile sands of Afghanistan, especially if it had remained in the body of a British soldier – and how had he managed to let the insanity of that morning slip from his mind in the first place?! – but he had left it with a gun that it could conceivably use on a human by accident, thus completely destroying any hope of human-alien diplomacy.   
  
_Way to screw everything up, Watson,_ he thought bitterly to himself. He had to get permission from his coordinating officer to go back to the alien and retrieve his gun. He could only hope that the alien hadn’t decided to explore and get trigger-happy while he was gone; it had been hours! Even if it had, though, he would fix it. Somehow. Determined, he squared his shoulders, spun on his heel, and headed straight for the officer’s mess.   
  
He made it one step before he stopped, staring down in shock at the Browning he’d just kicked. _That’s impossible,_ he thought, dazed, as he bent down to examine it. It was his gun, though; even the serial number was identical. _But I know that I left it at the crash site! How did it get here?_ He froze as the answer occurred to him and glanced at his surroundings from the corners of his eyes. The alien had to be in the base. John vividly remembered how it had changed colour and shape to mimic him; it could be anywhere! How would he possibly find it?   
  
There was an alien in the base. John cursed and stood, searching his surroundings as frantically as he could without drawing attention to himself. He was an _idiot._ An alien lands in the desert, essentially _assaults_ him, fails to communicate, and what does he do? He leads it back to one of the largest military bases in Afghanistan. Hell, there had to be enough explosive devices in the armoury to blow up all of London, and the alien could just turn into a puddle and slip under the door. _Congratulations, Watson,_ he thought caustically. _Ten hours and you’ve managed to doom the world. Well done, there._   
  
There wasn’t any other option, though; he’d have to go to the General and tell him what had happened. If the alien was hostile, they needed to find it as soon as possible. John turned back to the officer’s mess, deciding to start his search there – _someone_ was sure to know where the General was – when he felt a tug on his uniform trousers.   
  
_No. No way._ He looked down, and there it was. The ground had swollen and risen around his right foot and had a firm grip on his trouser leg. John shook his leg a bit and the sand released him, dropping back to form a flat surface again. A glance around proved that discretion might be the better part of valour in this case, and John stepped away from the medical tent and headed towards his own barracks. A few steps away, he looked behind him to see if the alien was following and was relieved to find that a slightly darkened patch of sand had formed and seemed to be trailing him.

In the thankfully empty barracks, the alien shifted itself into John’s double again and stood in the middle of the floor, staring at him. John ran a hand through his hair and paced the far end. _There is an alien in the room where I sleep. Why am I not more panicked about this? I should report it to the General; he would take care of it and get it sent to the government._ John stopped for a moment and stared back at the alien. _No, the alien damn near gave me a heart attack when it smothered me; what if that’s its way of greeting? It would attack the General or the Prime Minister or something. It would be killed!_ He remembered the absolute lack of effect his gun had had. _Or captured._ The alien could turn into a puddle. There wasn’t a room that would be able to hold it. Maybe a glass box? _Something would happen to it, and it wouldn’t be good. And then I’d be responsible for an alien race declaring war on Earth. Or maybe it would be the other way around. Either way, not good._   
  
The alien seemed to get bored with John’s silent and increasingly anxious pacing and took a few steps closer. John had to stop worrying for a few moments, if only because the sheer weirdness factor of the alien’s movements drove all other thought from his mind: It seemed to have figured out the basics of walking from watching John, but when it brought its leg forward it bent it at the knee. In the wrong direction. “Okay,” John managed. “I take it you didn’t make bones when you changed your shape?”   
  
The alien stopped less than a metre away from John and held its hand up, palm out. John stared for a moment, nonplussed, and then the alien said, “You can’t eat me. I’m a doctor.” John would have laughed at the sheer bizarreness if the alien didn’t seem so serious.   
  
Recalling his first words upon meeting the alien, John realized that it was imitating what it probably thought was a human greeting. John shook his head, a helpless smile on his face, and wondered when his life had gotten so weird. “No,” he said, taking the hand and bringing it down. “That’s not how humans greet each other.” He maneuvered the alien’s hand so that he could shake it. “Hello,” he enunciated carefully. “My name is John.”   
  
The alien stared at him for a few moments before shaking John’s hand again. “Hello. My name is John.”   
  
John blinked but decided that it was good enough. Especially since the alien didn’t seem to understand what it was saying. That would be the first thing he worked on, he decided. He took his hand back from the alien, trying to ignore the faint ripple that spread over the body, and pointed at himself. “John.” The alien just stared at him, so he did it again. “John.”   
  
The alien pointed at itself. “John,” it parroted faithfully.   
  
John shook his head and moved the alien’s arm so that it was pointing at John. “John,” he said again.   
  
“John.” The alien pushed its hand closer so that it was pressed against John’s chest. “John.”   
  
John nodded, grateful that the fabric of his uniform was blocking the strange texture of the alien’s skin – it was odd enough against his hands – and turned both their arms so that they both pointed at the alien. It had figured out that John was his name; surely it would be able to determine that John wanted to know its name. After several seconds of silence, John wasn’t as confident. He pointed to himself and said his name again before returning the gesture to the alien. The alien remained silent, but it rippled again, harder than it had earlier.   
  
John had just about given up hope on a name when the alien opened its mouth again. “No,” it said, “that’s not how humans greet each other.”   
  
John blinked. Tried to figure out what it was talking about. Failed. “What?”   
  
Another ripple. “No, that’s not how humans greet each other.”

A possible answer occurred to John. “You don’t have a name?” he ventured. His only response was a ripple. John sighed. “Well, we’ll have to give you a name.” After several minutes of blank staring, John was forced to admit that he was better-suited to naming pets. Morpheus, for example, was more the name he’d expect to hear for an eccentric woman’s dog than a human being. _Granted, it’s not a human being, but the point remains. It would be odd._   
  
“There’s nothing to do about it, then,” he sighed, wrapping a hand around the alien’s wrist. “I’m just going to have to take you to the General; he’ll get you sorted out.” With that, he tugged the alien towards the exit, intending to head straight to the officer’s mess to track down the General. When he reached for the door, however, the alien yanked its hand out of his grasp and backed away, ripples spreading as if John had dropped a pebble in the top of its head.   
  
“John,” it said. It reached out, limbs stretching impossibly, and pulled John’s hand away from the door. “John. No, that’s not how humans greet each other.”   
  
John let it pull him away from the door and back towards the center of the floor. “I think you might just be looking for the word ‘no’,” he guessed. “No,” he repeated for the alien’s benefit, and shook his head in the negative.   
  
The alien mimicked him. John, wondering if the alien would make the connection, then said “yes” and nodded his head in the affirmative.   
  
The alien stared at him for a moment before stepping past him towards the door. It reached out for the door and shook its head. “No.” It stepped away from the door and towards John and nodded. “Yes.”   
  
While mildly worried about the connotations of the accompanying actions, John figured that the alien had gotten the idea. “Yes.”   
  
“Yes. John.” With that, the alien dropped to the floor, simultaneously deforming back into a grey puddle, and it spread towards John. Before John had a chance to backpedal, it latched onto his boots and climbed over his uniform until it was spread over everything below his collar. The alien abruptly changed colors and camouflaged itself as John’s uniform, completely identical to the clothing it covered. The entire process took less than three seconds, and John had barely managed to open his mouth to shout. It seemed a rather absurd reaction after everything had already settled, so he let it snap shut again.   
  
John experimentally raised and lowered his arms and was shocked to find that despite the alien’s mass and constriction, the motion felt no different from before. He ran a hand down the front of his uniform and felt that strange plastic-oil texture; the alien was definitely coating his uniform, but it had no weight and no resistance. _How is that possible? The alien has enough mass to form an adult human male. It shouldn’t be weightless._   
  
Abruptly, his uniform pushed against his knees, forcing them to buckle, and he dropped lightly to kneel on the ground. His uniform – rather, the alien _covering_ his uniform – shifted him so that he could see his boots. As he watched, the alien changed its colours back to a light grey, and he realized that the alien was actually bracing itself against the ground on either side of his feet. “Amazing,” John breathed, bringing his arm forward so that he could examine the alien. “Simply amazing.” He stood up again and took a few steps, watching as the alien shifted its weight to whichever foot was on the ground without hindering his movements at all.   
  
“But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t move me again.”


	3. Wrinkles in Time

The next few months went something like this:

“No,” John said, pressing gently against the alien. “You can’t follow me. No. I need you to stay here.” He accompanied the statement with appropriate hand motions, trying to dissuade the alien from latching onto his uniform.   
  
The morning after the alien appeared, John had found himself ducking into a deserted tent when he should have been preparing for duty, desperately trying to explain himself to a creature that couldn’t understand him. The alien reached out again, trying to wrap around John’s sleeve, but he pulled his arm back.   
  
“I’m not taking you out to the field with me. It’s dangerous, it’s bloody, and I don’t want to expose you to it. Stay here.” He glared for good measure.   
  
Unfortunately, the alien was running on a completely different set of body language cues, and the glare had no effect. He was actually fairly certain that the alien was cataloguing it for future examination. “John. Doctor help.” It gestured to John’s uniform before turning its hands towards itself. “I help.”   
  
John shook his head. “By doing what? All you’ll accomplish is terrifying yourself, terrifying someone else if you’re seen, and possibly getting yourself shot. Again. Sorry about that, by the way.” Seeing the alien start to smile, picking up on the change of tone in the last sentence, John shook his head again. “No. You can’t come with me.”   
  
The alien shook its head in response. “Can’t stop me.” And it had the gall to smile.   
  
John opened his mouth to retort that he certainly could stop it, but he paused and considered. _Damn it,_ he realized. _It’s right. I can’t lock it in a room; it’ll just slip under the door or through a window. Hell, it could probably even pick the lock._ He sighed and dropped his head. “Please stay here,” he finally pled. “I don’t want you out there.”   
  
The alien tilted its head and blinked at him, but the call of “Watson! Report!” from outside prevented any answer. John patted the alien on the shoulder as he passed by, praying that it would see sense and just stay on base until he returned.   
  
He should have known it wouldn’t be so easy.   
  
It was a bad battle; the guerrillas had managed to get their hands on some rocket launchers and they were wreaking havoc on the Army troops. John dropped to his knees beside a particularly brutal set of broken ribs, pulling his kit from his shoulder to search for the supplies he knew he’d need from just a cursory glance. The soldier was writhing on the ground from pain when John pressed a piece of leather into his mouth to prevent him from biting through his tongue. One of the ribs had pierced the man’s chest, and John was fairly certain that the other side had entered the man’s lung. Based on the way the man had started to cough up blood, he thought it was an accurate assumption.   
  
John set to work on the man’s chest and narrowly avoided flinching when something brushed against his calf several minutes later. He spared a glance back, but there was no one and nothing there. Dismissing the sensation as nerves, he turned his attention back to the soldier and resumed murmuring platitudes. The second brush came against his outer thigh, and this time it didn’t move away. John was in the middle of an extremely delicate point in treatment, however, so he didn’t pay it any mind. That didn’t stop him from noting that the point of contact seemed to be spreading over the entirety of his lower body.   
  
As soon as he had stabilized the soldier and tagged him for pick-up, he dropped his gaze to his legs. There was nothing on him, but he could feel a light pressure against his thighs, calves, and hips. A sudden suspicion struck him, and he pressed the bare skin of his wrist against his uniform trousers, unsurprised when he felt that strange mix of oil and plastic. “Damn it,” he hissed, unsure if the alien could hear him. “I told you to stay on base!”

There was no reply, and John had no other option than to continue working as if the alien wasn’t there. Like the day before, there was no resistance to his motions as he stood up, although the alien took the moment to surge over him and cover him from neck to toe. John hurried to the next downed soldier and went to work on him, gradually forgetting that he even had an extra passenger. By the time he had stabilized his fifth soldier, it was as if nothing had changed. It wasn’t until he was in the convoy returning to base and a tendril brushed comfortingly against his racing pulse that he remembered the alien’s presence.   
  
There was nothing to say in the middle of a crowded vehicle, so John just ran a finger over his sleeve in response, hoping that the experience hadn’t terrified the alien and convinced it that humanity was a lost cause.   
  
He needn’t have worried.

* * *

The next time a skirmish rolled around, John didn’t even bother with a token protest as the alien attached itself to his uniform. He jumped into the fray of battle and set to saving as many lives as possible, alien passenger all but forgotten. Then, as he was sprinting between bodies, head held low, he felt something impact his chest from the side. He instinctively dove to the ground and searched the area with steady fingers, certain that he had been shot and that he would be in agony once the adrenaline faded.   
  
To his surprise, he felt only the oil-plastic texture of the alien over his ribs. The area was tender when he pressed against it through the alien’s skin, but it didn’t give like it would have had he been hit. With a mental shrug and promise to ask the alien about it later, he returned to searching out the wounded.   
  
The eventual conversation went like this:   
  
John pulled off his shirt and examined the dark bruise under his arm. The alien reached out and ran a finger over it, making John shiver. It immediately took its hand back and stepped away, staring at John with a blank expression. John pulled his shirt back on and took a seat on the chair. They had found an empty tent with only a table and chair as furnishings; there was almost no traffic outside the tent, so it was eerily quiet.   
  
“So,” John started. “I got shot, didn’t I?”   
  
The alien blinked and tilted its head. “Shot?”   
  
John pulled his gun, making sure that the safety was on, and pointed it at his side directly over the bruise. The alien reached out and covered the muzzle of the gun, arm stretched across the room. John jumped in surprise, but allowed the alien to take the Browning from him. “Someone shot a bullet from a gun and hit me,” John stated, certain that he was right.   
  
“Yes,” the alien admitted flatly. “I stopped it.” He examined the gun. “You save people who get shot. Why do you have a gun?”   
  
“My job isn’t to shoot people; it’s to save people’s lives. Sometimes, though, I have to fight to keep myself and my patients safe. I don’t like to kill, but I will kill when I have to.”   
  
The alien nodded but turned its mouth down into a frown. Still, it returned the gun without comment. Disapproval practically radiated from it, but it remained silent. John met its stare for several seconds before sighing. “Alright. What’s the problem?”   
  
“No problem,” the alien denied; “different ideas. I don’t kill; death is bad. You kill; death is alright.” It shrugged. “I don’t agree, but you have your own choice.”   
  
John ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that I do,” he acknowledged. There was silence for several moments before the alien reached a hand out, palm facing John. John matched it, and they sat that way for a few minutes, just accepting each other’s differences. Finally, John smiled and used his grip to pull the alien towards the door. “Come on,” he said. “I’m going to go take a nap. You’re welcome to hang out while I do, or to go do whatever it is you do when I’m sleeping at night; either way, let’s get out of here.”   
  
They never used that tent as a discussion place again; it was coloured by their not-really-an-argument. John took the alien with him whenever he went out into the field after that. Eventually, he stopped worrying about enemy bullets and trusted the alien to keep him safe. It never let him down.

* * *

The day after meeting the alien, John passed the General in the base. He snapped around as the General walked by him; the semi-comforting brush against his wrist as the alien slipped slightly over the edge of his cuff reminded him to go to attention. Before he could call the General’s attention and ask for a private audience to disclose the alien’s presence, however, the alien forced him into a quick march in the opposite direction. Unwilling to make a scene by protesting, John followed its motions without resistance.   
  
When they had ensconced themselves in an empty tent, the alien disengaged itself from John’s uniform. “No, John,” it said, once again in John’s appearance. “Not good.”   
  
John pushed a hand though his hair and glared tiredly at the alien. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me, but it’s not going to happen without the General’s help. He’s in charge; he needs to know that you’re on base.” He grabbed the alien’s arm and tugged it towards the door. “Come on; climb on. We need to introduce you to the General.”   
  
The alien hesitated for a moment before briskly reattaching itself to John’s uniform. Instead of letting him walk to the door, however, it locked all of John’s joints and forced him into immobility. John could feel the alien ripple against his body and sucked in a breath through his nose to keep calm.   
  
“I told you not to interfere with me,” John forced out through clenched teeth. The muscles in his arms and legs twitched as he instinctively fought the claustrophobic hold. “Let go of me. Now.”   
  
The alien didn’t respond to his words; after several nerve-wracking seconds in which John remembered the terror he’d felt when the alien had first attacked him, it gently walked John back to a chair and sat him down. The alien unraveled itself from John’s chest, but it immediately bound John’s limbs to the chair.   
  
As John watched, furious, the alien stretched itself until it appeared completely human excepting the arms that faded into restraints. “I told you to let me go,” John repeated, straining against one of the alien’s arm-like appendages. “No,” he tried, sure that the alien understood that much. To his dismay the alien didn’t budge, even when he threw all his weight against it.   
  
“John,” the alien said, leaning forward. “No, John. No humans.”   
  
_This game of ‘guess the meaning’ is getting really old,_ John grumbled internally as he resigned himself to struggling to parse the meaning behind the alien’s words. “I can’t tell anyone?” he guessed. “You don’t want other people knowing that you’re here?”   
  
Despite his best attempts, the alien couldn’t understand his words and couldn’t confirm or deny his suspicions. With his arms bound, he couldn’t even pantomime the meaning. It rippled with increasing frequency until the waves flowed over John’s arms continuously. Abruptly, the alien tore itself away from John and devolved into a mass of flailing, tangling appendages. With a touch of bemusement, John identified the motions as a thankfully nonviolent temper tantrum.   
  
John waited patiently in the chair, anger dissipated after seeing the alien’s matching frustration, and watched as the alien slowly calmed and settled. When at last the alien was still, John slid from his chair to kneel at its side. The alien shifted slightly but didn’t pull away as John placed his palm flat against it. Awkwardly, he ran his hand across it in a soothing motion. The alien rippled once and subsided, cresting its form so that it seemed to arc into the touch like a cat.   
  
Without interrupting the caress, John sighed and let the last of his frustration bleed out. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” he muttered. The alien didn’t respond. “Alright, you stupid lump. I won’t tell anyone. I have no idea what you’re expecting that to accomplish, but I’ll keep you secret.”   
  
John liked to imagine that the alien had smiled at that.

* * *

Sometimes, it goes more like this:

The alien was ridiculously intelligent.

John had decided that while the alien was progressing rapidly in speech – by the end of the first week, it could carry on a simple conversation with John – learning to read and write English would be a huge milestone towards developing its communication abilities. He proceeded to write the alphabet in both capital and lowercase letters in his neatest script. For good measure, he added the numbers zero through nine at the bottom. When the alien reformed itself as a human, John sat it at a table and read the alphabet.   
  
The alien echoed it back perfectly, of course. That didn’t surprise John; the alien had a superhuman ability to read lips and mimic words and tones accurately. What surprised him was that when he took away the sheet of paper and traced the letter ‘J’ on a blank sheet, intending to imply that he wanted the alien to memorize the series of symbols, the alien said its name with absolutely no hesitation.   
  
John stared at it in shock for several seconds before writing another letter, lowercased. “H,” the alien replied immediately. “Q,” it said of the next, and “W” of the one that followed that. John numbly handed the alien the pencil and clearly named a letter. The lowercase ‘R’ was identical to the one John had drawn on the first sheet of paper.   
  
_Well,_ John thought dazedly, _at least I won’t have to worry about deciphering messy handwriting. Good God._ He took the pencil back and wrote the word ‘human’ on the paper. The alien immediately began to name each letter, but John hushed him and said “Human.” The alien stared at him, eyes unblinking, and John repeated it clearly, tapping the word. “Human.”   
  
The alien looked back at the paper and echoed, “Human.” As John watched, the alien glanced back up at him and spread its face into a wide grin. “Human.”   
  
And so the alien learned to read.

* * *

John was unexpectedly confronted by the alien’s otherworldly behavior when he brought it a dictionary. The alien had been hounding him almost constantly in their stolen time, pencil and paper in tow, as it repeated words insistently until John deigned to spell them out. The alien learned the rules of pronunciation unbelievably quickly, and it was soon spelling out words phonetically and only showing the finished result to John for approval.   
  
Unfortunately, the English language was notorious for having strange spelling rules fraught with exceptions, and the alien’s frustration whenever one such exception popped up was obvious from the ripple that would rush over it, followed by an expression of distaste almost as an afterthought. John wasn’t an idiot; he quickly realized that the strange ripple represented frustration or annoyance in the alien’s foreign body language and that it had managed to parse his body language for the appropriate analogous response. The result was a disconcerting several-second pause between the conflict and the alien’s expression change. More than once, the sheer oddness had sufficiently derailed John’s train of thought so that he lost whatever argument they had been having.   
  
The stronger the emotion, though, the longer it took for the alien to draw up the appropriate response. The lengthy hiatus before the alien took on a petulant expression when John told it to stop asking him to spell out words was particularly telling. John glanced up at it from the corner of his squinted eye, unwilling to move his aching head from the pillow. He sighed. “Here, how’s this: I’ll nick a dictionary from the rec room, walk you through the pronunciation guide, and you can check it yourself.”   
  
The alien blinked at him. “Dictionary?” it repeated, tone politely curious. The discontent had almost immediately disappeared from its face at the distraction. “What is a dictionary?”

John draped an arm over his eyes and wished the lights would just _turn off,_ dammit. _Why me?_ He moaned dramatically to the ceiling. _All the humans on the planet – more than six billion – and I’m the one who gets to deal with the alien. Alright, God; whatever I did to piss you off, I apologize._ Aloud, he replied, “It’s a book with every word in the English language. It has a guide for pronunciation, and it also has a definition for every word. If you can learn the dictionary as quickly as you learned the alphabet, you’ll be able to communicate with any English speaker, no problem.”  
  
The alien obviously perked up, eyes and grin widening slightly in an exact reflection of John’s expression when he was excited. “When?” he begged. “I want a dictionary now. I can get it; where is it?”  
  
John groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyebrows. The pressure eased the pain momentarily, and he groaned. “I’m not sending you to steal a dictionary. I’ll get it tomorrow and bring it back to you; until then, you’re just going to have to find some other form of entertainment.”  
  
The blank expression on the alien’s face was a dead giveaway that it wasn’t happy about the situation but didn’t want to risk alienating – hah! – John to its cause and so would try not to offend him. John allowed himself a brief flash of satisfaction at the minor victory and rolled over, ignoring the alien as he fell into a pained sleep.  
  
The next afternoon, John had barely walked through the door to the empty barracks when the alien practically ripped itself free from his uniform and snatched the book from his hands. It settled at the small table, dictionary spread open before it, and looked up at John expectantly. John shook his head in amusement, thankful that the motion didn’t bring any of the roaring pain it had the day before, and stood next to the alien. “Alright, this is a schwa,” he began. He ran through the list of pronunciation symbols, and when he finished the alien nearly ripped the page out in its eagerness to begin reading.  
  
John left it to its work and sat on the edge of the nearest bed to remove his boots. After he had them off, he realized that the sound of page-flipping was much faster than it should have been. He looked up at the alien and tilted his head in mute confusion at the sight. The alien had both hands spread over the pages, and John could see from his angle that the palms were a dark shade of grey. Each hand drifted down over the page, and when the alien reached the bottom of both pages it flipped the page and ran its hands down those pages as well.  
  
“You can’t possibly be reading that,” John found himself interjecting.   
  
The alien glanced up sharply and narrowed its eyes at him. “Why do you say that?”  
  
_Isn’t it obvious?_ “Well, for starters, you’re covering most of the page with your hands. The way you’re holding your hands, there’s no way you’d be able to see a full half of each page. Then there’s the speed. I don’t care how smart you are or how good at memorization; no one can read that many pages that quickly and actually retain the information.”  
  
“Interesting,” the alien said in response. “I thought that you were blind in most of your body, but I wasn’t sure. Thank you for confirming my analysis.”  
  
John felt a chill run down his spine. He hadn’t ever said the word ‘analysis’ in the alien’s company, had he? Perhaps the alien had overheard one of the technicians while they were out in the field. “You’re lying,” he managed.  
  
The alien immediately flipped several hundred pages in the dictionary. “Lying. Ah, I see. No, I’m not lying. What purpose would it serve? Being dishonest about my abilities doesn’t gain me anything in this circumstance.” It hadn’t looked away from John for a moment.  
  
“So, what, then?” John could feel his head swimming; sometimes it was obvious that he was dealing with an alien. Other times it would seem like a completely normal human being until it did something impossible. Like reading an entry in the dictionary without even glancing in its direction. “You can see through your hands?”

The answering scoff was enough to shake John out of his shock and into a glare. “Hardly _through_ my hands. I see with my hands. And hair. And every other body part.” The alien began to run its hands down the pages again, flipping to the next as rapidly as before, while simultaneously carrying on the conversation. “I don’t see why that comes as such a surprise to you; it’s much more efficient and effective than only using two tiny little pinpricks in the front of your face. You must miss so much.”  
  
The rough sheets grounded John as he clenched his hands against them. “You can see with every part of your body,” he repeated, disbelief colouring his words. _“How?”_   
  
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s a matter of pigment. My – tissue, I suppose; that seems to be the most accurate – My tissue is photoreceptive. As I darken the pigment” – the alien’s face darkened to nearly black accordingly – “I receive more data from the light hitting my body. It can be a bit overwhelming, though. As I lighten the pigment” – and here its face whitened beyond the point of albino until it was as blinding as the puddle it had been when John first encountered it – “I reflect more light than I absorb, and I become essentially blind.” It returned the shade and hue of its skin to its previous state. “Do you understand now?” Never during the explanation had the alien stopped scanning pages with its hands. John could see that it had reached the end and was back where it had left off to look up ‘lying.’ Less than five minutes had passed.  
  
A shaky laugh was enough to give pause to those rapidly moving hands. “You – You can change the color of your skin to see more or less light. Oh my God. What have I gotten myself into?” John leveled a vaguely accusing finger at the alien, who had the grace to appear affronted. “You’re not normal.”  
  
The alien rolled its eyes, a motion John had no doubt modeled for it several times in the last week. “I am perfectly normal for my species. The phenomenon isn’t even so unnatural to your own species: I’ve observed humans’ pupils shrinking when exposed to brighter light and dilating when introduced to a darker environment. You limit the light input just as I do; you just use a different method of modulation.”  
  
“Yes, but it’s not voluntary!” John exploded. His head felt light. Perhaps he was going into shock. God, but that alien would be the death of him; he was certain of it. Fearing a return of the migraine of the day before, he headed off the alien’s eminent rebuttal and explanation. “Never mind. It’s not important; you’re still you, stranger than fiction. Just – Next time you do something that’s completely impossible for any life form on Earth, please keep in mind that I’m just an army doctor. I’m not used to believing six impossible things before breakfast.”  
  
“Six? That’s oddly specific.”  
  
“It’s a reference to a book. No, I’m not going to give you a copy of it; frankly, I’m terrified of what you’d come up with if you read _Alice in Wonderland._ I don’t think my mind could take it.”  
  
Perhaps it was the strained quality of his voice, or perhaps the alien had just managed to finish downloading the entirety of the dictionary – _in less than seven minutes, what the_ Hell – but it gently closed the book and strode to stand before John. “I’m not any different than before, John,” it reassured him. The blank expression really shouldn’t have been comforting, but John took it as a sign that the alien didn’t properly know how to react to the situation, and any effort it took to ease his shock suddenly seemed infinitely touching and sentimental. “It doesn’t matter what my appearance might be; I’m always going to be me. I wouldn’t hurt you, John. It doesn’t matter what form I might take: I’ll never hurt you.” The alien knelt and looked up into John’s eyes, which were widened in shock at the turn their conversation had taken. “You have to trust me in this.”  
  
_Why do I feel as if I’ve just been proposed to?_ “I trust you,” John confirmed, not entirely sure why that statement rang so true after such a short time. Maybe there was something to getting to know someone without words getting in the way. The English language was such a fickle thing, after all.

The alien smiled at him brightly, and John hesitantly echoed the expression.

* * *

As the weeks went by, the alien evolved from an exact copy of John to a more unique mix of hairstyles, hair colours, eye shapes and pigments, skin tone, and even uniform that it had picked up from various soldiers around the base. It seemed to settle on a deeply tanned Second Lieutenant with straight, platinum hair. Its eyes were wide and dark brown, and it seemed to have kept John’s stocky build. Eventually, John realized that the alien was creating its own body from parts of other people, and he wrote home to his sister for a copy of Mary Shelley’s _Frankenstein._ He didn’t realize his mistake until the alien returned the book an hour later and demanded that John get him a copy of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ , along with the other books referenced in the novel.   
  
It wouldn’t have been so bad if the alien hadn’t been using speech patterns that would have been more appropriate in the nineteenth century.   
  
“No,” John stated, arms crossed across his chest. “Absolutely not. If reading _Frankenstein_ has you speaking like this, I don’t want to even contemplate you speaking in verse or something similar.” God, his brain was already being stretched every day with each new quirk that appeared as the alien became more fluent in humanity. It wouldn’t be able to handle a return to the horror that had been his upper-level English courses in Uni. He shuddered just to think of it.   
  
The announcement had prompted a flounce of epic proportions: The alien took the book with it as it ventured through a florid rant on the injustices of pig-headed army doctors who sowed the seeds of intellectual curiosity only to curb them with denial after denial. John wisely didn’t point out that he had only denied the alien those specific books; had it asked for something more modern, he would have been only too happy to write home for it. Besides, he could write off one copy of _Frankenstein_ as professional morbidity; if he were to suddenly request all the classics he’d so loudly denounced in Uni, Harry would know in a heartbeat that something was off.   
  
The alien finished off its mild tantrum with a dramatic flop onto John’s bed. “Such cruelty! My heart shall never again be whole nor hale; the damage wrought upon it is so great as to render it incapable of ever feeling that camaraderie so intrinsic in the relations of friends. I shall surely never recover from this sharp betrayal!”   
  
John shook his head and patted the alien on the shoulder as he passed, knowing that it would soon get distracted by some new interest and forget about the entire episode. He got a scowl for his troubles. “I’m going to grab some food from the mess,” he said. “Try not to destroy anything before I get back.”   
  
He glanced back as he left and was pleased to see that the alien had already found its next distraction, judging by the suddenly blanked expression. That tended to happen when the alien got so involved that it forgot to mimic human reactions; in this case, the alien had found another book and was already palms-deep in it. John saw that it was one of Murray’s and felt immediate relief. If there was one person less likely to have one of those dry classics than John, it was Murray. The alien would be back to speaking normally by the time he got back from the mess.   
  
Ah, the follies of ignorance.

* * *

“I want a name,” the alien announced a month after meeting John.   
  
John glanced up from sewing a patch in his trousers. They were still comfortable, and there was only a small tear, so it made more sense to repair them than bother with requisitions. His neat sutures proved fairly effective at holding the fabric together. “Completely understandable,” he replied to the alien. “I tried giving you a name when we first met, but I couldn’t think of anything fitting.”   
  
“Yes, yes, I remember,” it replied, waving its hand dismissively.

There had been no doubt that the alien remembered; it remembered _everything._ John recalled how it had mimicked his words back to him ten hours after hearing them for the first (and only) time, even before it had understood what it was saying. _‘You can’t eat me. I’m a doctor.’ One of the first sentences spoken by alien-kind on Earth. God, I’m a horrible diplomat._   
  
“I don’t want you to give me a name, of course,” the alien continued casually. “You’d probably name me something idiotic based on my ability to change form. No, I want to be called Ford.”  
  
John’s brain stuttered a bit and he almost drew blood from his own finger as the needle went wide. “Sorry, what?” _Ford?_ Where on Earth had it gotten the idea of _Ford_ as a name?!  
  
The alien sighed, looking very put-upon. “It’s from this book I read a few weeks ago,” it said. It stretched its arm across the room – such feats no longer fazed John – and grabbed the book from Murray’s bunk. _“The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”_   
  
There was probably more after that, but John was preoccupied with a mild panic attack. _Oh God, no. What have I done to deserve this? Spare me_ Alice in Wonderland _but give me_ The Hitchhiker’s Guide _instead? Please, God, kill me now._   
  
The alien had stopped talking and was now staring at John with an eyebrow raised, obviously wondering why John hadn’t responded to its demand. “I’m not calling you Ford,” John managed belatedly. The alien rolled its eyes and opened its mouth to reply, but John cut it off. “No, really, I’m not going to call you Ford. I always hated that character, Ford is a stupid name (and weren’t you accusing me of that earlier?), and I absolutely refuse to refer to you by the same name as . . . _that.”_   
  
The alien glowered at him. “It’s not as if using the name would give me his personality; trust me, I wouldn’t _want_ to be as incompetent as him. And it’s not a stupid name.”  
  
“Oh, yes it is. Utterly idiotic. I can’t let you go around affiliating yourself with a character in that book, either; are you _trying_ to make it obvious that you’re an alien?”  
  
“Oh, come off it. No one would make the connection. And it’s not affiliating myself with the character, it’s _sharing the bloody name.”_   
  
“I think you’re severely underestimating the circulation of that particular series. And the answer is still no.”  
  
“I’m not underestimating the circulation of the book; you’re overestimating the average human’s intelligence. I do watch them while you’re working, if you remember. I’ve a perfectly balanced mind. You, on the other hand, seem to have an irrational problem with me just sharing Ford.”  
  
“Sharing Ford? _Sharing Ford?_ That’s not sharing Ford, that’s – Wait. Oh. Oh my God. I’ve got it.” John felt a grin split his face and knew that it had to look a bit demented. The alien wanted to be called Ford? Alright, relationships were all about compromise.  
  
The alien didn’t look even remotely reassured by John’s glee. “What,” it asked flatly.  
  
“Okay. You’re right. I don’t have a problem with you, Sherrinford.” John only felt his amusement rise at the alien’s blank look.  
  
“Great,” it said slowly. John wondered if it was just going to take the supposed win, even if it didn’t understand why John had suddenly surrendered his point. “You’ll call me Ford, then,” it verified. Such a pity that it had to satisfy its curiosity.  
  
“Nope!” John said cheerfully. “I’ll call you Sherrinford. And there’s really nothing you can do to change my mind. It’s an odd name, sure, but it sounds vaguely like something from the Victorian Era, so you can play it off as odd parents.” His cheeks were hurting from the width of his grin, but the newly-dubbed Sherrinford’s face still hadn’t gained an expression, and the experience of putting the usually-quick alien on the wrong foot for so long was greatly rewarding.  
  
“I won’t respond to it,” the alien finally spat. “You don’t have the patience or the tenacity to make it stick.” The body language was just a little too stiff, though, like it always was when the alien tried to portray a false emotion rather than feed a certain pose with honest emotional energy.  
  
“If you say so, Sherrinford.”

* * *

And this is how it ends:

It would be an understatement to say that John was surprised when he turned around, only to find that Sherrinford had abandoned the form it had claimed as its own in order to take that of a strange man. In contrast to Sherrinford’s usual uniform variations, the alien was dressed sharply in a business suit. Its hair had darkened to a brown that was nearly black, and its face seemed a decade older. Worry lines creased the high brow, emphasized by severely arched eyebrows. Perhaps the most disconcerting aspect of the alien’s new appearance, however, was the incongruous umbrella at its side.   
  
“Felt like getting out of your skin for a while, I see,” John commented, trying not to stare at the umbrella and wonder if the alien had made it from itself or stolen it.   
  
“Hardly.” The alien’s voice hadn’t changed, and it was all the stranger because the light tones didn’t match the formal dress and manner. “I don’t ‘get out of my skin,’ I simply change my skin’s appearance. But that’s not why I formed this man, anyway. John, have you ever seen this man?”   
  
John blinked and scrutinized Sherrinford’s new appearance. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t think so. Why; who is he?”   
  
Sherrinford sighed and folded himself onto the nearest bed. “This is my brother. He’s the reason I’m on Earth in the first place. I came to find him and help him with his mission, but I crashed into a satellite on my way in and got knocked off-course and out of control.” He gestured to the surrounding area. “Thus Afghanistan. He sent me an image of his current form so that I would be able to identify him upon arrival, but I have no idea where he is now. Of course, being so typically himself, he didn’t send me any instructions on fitting into human culture; just the image of his current form.”   
  
Mind stuck on one point in the explanation, John asked, “Mission?” Long-banished thoughts of alien invasion and impersonation flashed through his mind with a vengeance.   
  
The alien slowly resumed its usual form. “Oh, it’s a peace mission, of course; after we realized that most other planets and societies were constantly at war, killing themselves and their neighbors, we organized a sort of ambassador-missionary project. My brother is one of the volunteers for this program; they train in communications, cultural sensitivity, diplomacy, and a whole host of other areas so that they can travel to a war-torn planet and assist in building a peaceful society.” Sherrinford folded its hands across its stomach and closed its eyes. “I am not actually a part of the project, but my brother asked me to join him on Earth. I had to go through several of the training programs before departing, so he has certainly been here for at least a year already.”   
  
“Right.” John firmly pushed the horrors that a shape-shifting alien could wreak in a year from his mind. “So your brother is here as an ambassador for peace. You said you’re not part of the program though, so why are you here? Just to keep him company?”   
  
Sherrinford hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s a part of it; it can get incredibly lonely not having anyone to talk to in our own language.” It opened its eyes and looked over at John, who tried not to feel hurt at the implied accusation of inadequacy. “Not that you aren’t wonderful company, and not that I’m lonely all the time, or even that frequently. But you really can’t communicate like we do, and my brother almost certainly doesn’t have a friend like you. If he’s revealed himself to anyone, it will have been to the heads of your planet’s governments. For obvious reasons, he will have to remain emotionally detached from those people.” Sherrinford turned its head back and stared at the bunk above him. “I have to go find him,” he murmured.   
  
John’s heart, recently recovered from the previous blow by the casual admission of friendship, broke again. “So you’ll be leaving, then,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice steady. He tried to imagine the rest of his tour without Sherrinford’s friendship and winced. Without even realizing it, he’d distanced himself from the rest of his company; he hadn’t even looked Murray in the eye in the last two weeks. If – _When_ – Sherrinford left, he’d be totally alone.   
  
“Yes.”  
  
Sherrinford had closed its eyes again, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t still watching John. John forced a smile and a cheery attitude. “Well, you’d probably want to head to the UK; it’s as good a place to start as any, and you’ll be able to watch for your brother on the news. Now we just have to figure a way to smuggle you out of here.” He didn’t even bother suggesting the General.   
  
With a sudden burst of energy that startled John, Sherrinford jumped from the bed and began pacing. “That should be easy enough; I can sneak into the luggage bay with the bags of the soldiers who are returning back to England. The lack of air and cold won’t bother me, and I can just sneak away from everyone when the plane lands.”   
  
A potential problem presented itself to John’s mind. “Wait; you don’t have any documentation. Eventually you’ll be arrested, and someone will realize that you’re not human.”   
  
“Oh, that’s simple enough.” The alien fished through the pockets of its uniform and pulled out a wallet. From it, he grabbed a driver’s license and held it up for John’s inspection. “See?”   
  
“Sherrinford, you can’t steal someone’s driver’s license.” He stepped forward and reached out to take the pilfered card, but the information on it stopped him. “How did you do this?” he asked, staring at the card with Sherrinford Watson’s information. As he watched, it dissolved into the alien’s hand. He looked up, eyes wide.   
  
“I can form my body to any shape and colour; you know this already. I hope you don’t mind that I’m borrowing your surname, but Sherrinford Sherrinwatson seemed too contrived.” It shrugged.   
  
“No,” John murmured, still staring at Sherrinford’s hand. “No, that’s fine.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, look; if you’re going to go to the UK and never see me again, can I give you something to remember me by?” He glanced over Sherrinford’s uniform and reconsidered, wondering where exactly the alien would put it. _If it changes form, anything in the pockets would fall out, of course._ He had just opened his mouth to retract his offer politely when the alien smiled and nodded.   
  
“John, I won’t forget you. But I would never turn down your gift.”   
  
“Where would you put it, though? You can’t carry it in your pockets; if you had to change form, it would just fall out, right?” Despite his words, John was already sorting through his belongings for something that he could give the alien. He finally ran across the copy of _Frankenstein_ that he had given Sherrinford so long before and held it up to the alien. “This won’t work, will it? It’s just that I remember how happy you were when I got it for you and how much of a fit you had when I wouldn’t get you _Paradise Lost.”_   
  
The alien raised an eyebrow and smirked lightly. “Yes, you certainly did bring out the best and worst of me. Don’t worry; that will serve perfectly.” It took the book and pressed it to its chest; the book sank through the layer of skin and slid into the alien’s body with no sign of having been there.   
  
John was aware that he was gaping. “You can hold things in your body?” He looked up at the alien’s face. “Brilliant! Have you got anything else in there?”   
  
The alien’s expression went startlingly blank, something John hadn’t seen in over a month. Obviously uncomfortable with the question, then, but John wasn’t sure what he’d said to discomfit it so badly. Wordlessly, the alien held out its hand palm-down, fingers curled as if it held something small in its palm. John put his hand underneath, palm up, and the alien opened its hand.   
  
A 9mm bullet dropped into his hand. John held it to his face for examination. It had been fired, but there was no damage from impact. Almost as if it had been fired into water – John sucked in his breath as he looked down at his Browning. “This is from when I shot you,” he realized. “At the crash site, when we first met; I panicked and shot you.” He looked up, feeling lost. “You kept the bullet?”   
  
Sherrinford shrugged, face still unsettlingly expressionless. “Of course. I had no idea what it was; I kept it to examine it. After a while, I decided that I liked having something of yours to carry with me.” The smile appeared so suddenly that John immediately knew that it was forced and faked. “Even if it is a weapon.”

“Part of a weapon,” John corrected, solemnly placing the bullet back in Sherrinford’s palm. It disappeared instantly, secreted away in the alien’s body. “It’s pretty useless without the gun.” He held up his Browning.  
  
“And the gun is pretty useless without the bullet.” Sherrinford cleared its throat and grinned. “It’s a good thing you’ve got plenty.”  
  
John let the charged atmosphere recede without protest. “And a kit of medical supplies, too. I’ll see if I can find out when the next plane is going to come around for pick-up; we’ll slip you onto that one.” Impulsively, he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the alien. “I’ll miss you,” he admitted.  
  
Sherrinford hugged him back. “I’ll miss you, too. Be careful when I’m gone; you won’t have a bullet-proof shield anymore.”  
  
They remained in their embrace for a few more seconds before John awkwardly released the alien. He patted Sherrinford’s shoulder and smiled. “I’m going to grab some dinner in the mess; if I can, I’ll see about the outgoing flight schedules.” With that, he fled the barracks.  
  
Two weeks later, a personnel helicopter left Afghanistan with one extra suitcase.  
  
Almost a full year after that, just before his tour of duty was scheduled to end, John Watson forgot in the heat of the battle that he wasn’t bullet-proof and stepped into the line of fire.  
  
-End Arc One-


	4. The More Things Change...

Several months, a few therapy sessions, and an honorable discharge later, John found himself deep in depression and wondering how his life had gone so wrong. He’d left Harry’s after their third screaming match in as many days and returned to London, hoping to regain his youthful vivacity, but it turned out to only be a reminder of all that he had lost. His time in the war had isolated him from his previous friends, and his time with Sherrinford had alienated him from his comrades. He had been right, he realized one day in the middle of a park. The crushing weight of that understanding forced him to sit on the edge of a nearby fountain. He’d known that when Sherrinford left he would be left completely alone.   
  
John’s shoulders shook as he cried in public for the first time in nearly three decades, and he hated himself for it.

* * *

It was in the midst of that dark depression that John ran into Mike Stamford, an old friend from Uni. He considered just walking on when he heard his name, aware that Stamford would only be yet another disappointing reminder of how so much had changed for him, but the man seemed determined to speak with him. John reluctantly let the man buy him a coffee and lead him to a park bench, where they engaged in stilted, awkward conversation.   
  
John felt his heart sink; he remembered when he and Mike had stumbled back to the dormitories, giggling at their spectacularly failed attempts to pick up girls. How had he been reduced to this bumbling, awkward creature? The only upside was Mike’s suggestion and referral of a flatmate. John wondered if it would be easier to get along with a stranger who hadn’t known him before the war; would he still seem so ill at ease and maladjusted, or would he just appear shy?   
  
Either way, he considered his life since returning from Afghanistan and decided that the only options were forcing himself back into life or putting a bullet through his own skull. He agreed to meet Mike Stamford’s friend.   
  
With an almost insufferable cheer, Mike led John to the morgue at Bart’s, assuring John that if the potential flatmate wasn’t there, the worker on duty would know where he was. John warily followed him into the chilly, white-washed rooms and wondered if this wasn’t perhaps the worst idea he’d ever had in his life. He weighed it against joining the RAMC and decided that yes, it was.   
  
In the morgue Mike left John at the door and cornered the girl who was working, and they carried on a whispered conversation with frequent glances thrown in his direction. To fight the paranoia that they were plotting against him – they almost certainly were – John forced his attention to the mousy girl with light brown hair. He decided that she seemed very shy. Eventually, she giggled and pointed out the door, clearly dismissing the two men.   
  
And then they met the potential flatmate.   
  
John walked into the lab and examined both the man bent over a Petri dish and the equipment in the room in equal measure. “A bit different from my day,” he decided. _And so returns the awkward social fumbling. Wasn’t I a popular guy, back in the day? Why can’t I just be me again?_   
  
The man, tall and well-dressed with skin that was shockingly pale against his dark hair, glanced up as he entered but quickly returned his attention to the lab table, expression unchanged from the mild curiosity it had held upon the door opening. “Mike, can I borrow your phone?” he asked blandly. “There’s no signal on mine.”   
  
Mike’s was unavailable, so John offered his own, hoping to make a good impression. “Oh,” the man said. “Thank you.” He made eye contact for the first time and smiled lightly. Mike introduced him, and John forced a small smile in return.

As he flipped the phone open and started to type, the man said, “I see Afghanistan wasn’t good to you.” John’s smile dropped away as his shoulders hunched defensively. The motion shot a spike of pain through the injured left, bringing back his focus from the panicked jumble his thoughts had become.   
  
_I can’t have heard that correctly._ “I’m sorry?” John asked, looking from Mike’s smug expression to the other man’s bored one. _There’s no way._   
  
“I simply observed that Afghanistan must not have been good to you.” A tiny smirk slid on and off the man’s face in the space of a second as he glanced at John.   
  
Extremely uncomfortable and anxious and wondering why he couldn’t have just _one_ person with whom his relationship didn’t revolve around the war, John replied, “No, not really. Sorry, how did you –?”   
  
The door opened behind him, admitting the mousy girl from the morgue and interrupting John’s query. He watched, bemused, as she offered a mug of coffee to the strange man who knew more than he should have. “Ah, Molly,” he greeted her, returning John’s phone and taking the mug. The genial expression fell from his face as he asked, “What happened to the lipstick?”   
  
Molly was obviously embarrassed as she answered. “It wasn’t working for me,” she admitted, wringing her hands nervously. John felt guilty for feeling so incredibly glad that there was someone else in the world who felt as awkward as he did in that moment.   
  
“Really?” The man turned and headed back to the lab table. “I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.” He set the mug down as the poor girl made her escape.   
  
John stared at the man, trying to find the best way to phrase, ‘How did you know I was in Afghanistan and who on Earth taught you manners?’ without being rude, but the man started talking before he could think of it.   
  
“How do you feel about Italian?” the man asked.   
  
Uncertain whether the question was directed towards him or Mike, John hesitated. The man didn’t look at either to signify the object of his curiosity, so John prompted, “Sorry?”   
  
“I asked how you felt about Italian. Food, of course; I feel that potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, and I decided that lunch would be a great way to get to know each other’s faults.” He smiled for roughly two seconds before continuing. “I know most of yours already, of course, but you could find out about mine and make your decision. I already know that the violin won’t bother you: Based on the frequency with which you’ve asked me to repeat yourself, you must be hard of hearing.” He glanced up at John, who was feeling distinctly shell-shocked. A glint of teasing appeared in the creases of the man’s face as he smirked. “Or are you just slow? Might explain how you got caught in the line of fire.”   
  
John forced off the immediate response _-hurt-indignation-disbelief-how can you_ joke _about that?!-_ and turned to Mike, who was definitely smirking at him, the bastard. “You told him about me?” he guessed. It made sense; there was no other way the man could possibly know about Afghanistan or flatmates. Hell, Italian was even his favorite kind of food, although why Mike would bother relating that was beyond John.   
  
But no, “Not a word,” Mike said.   
  
Distinctly bewildered, John turned back to the man. “Then who said anything about flatmates?” Because John was starting to entertain theories of mind-reading and time-travelers – after having an alien as his best friend for nearly a year, it wasn’t so far-fetched – and he’d really have liked to be proven wrong.   
  
“I did,” the man replied lightly, “and I asked you to lunch. Are you interested?” The glance he got this time seemed much more weighted, and John felt himself agreeing before he really thought it through. “Excellent! I know a nice place not too far from here.” He put on his coat and scarf, taking off the latex gloves he’d been wearing and replacing them with a leather pair. “We can walk, if you’d like, or take a cab if that limp is acting up. First, though, I need to make a stop at the mortuary. I think I left my riding crop with one of the corpses.”

John got the strong feeling that he was in way over his head. He glanced at Mike frantically, silently begging for help, but his friend merely shrugged and waved his hand as if to say, ‘Go on, then.’ The man was standing by the door, holding it open for John to follow.   
  
“Ah, listen,” John began. “I get the feeling that we might be moving a bit fast here” –and God, was that an understatement—“but don’t you think we should get to know each other a bit more before going to lunch together with a riding crop?” Thank God Harry hadn’t heard that sentence. She would never have let him live it down. “I don’t even know your name.”   
  
The man rolled his eyes. “I was under the impression that ‘getting to know each other a bit more’ was what I had already proposed, but if you insist I can leave the riding crop here and pick it up on the way back. The name’s Sherlock Holmes, by the way, and I have my eye on a flatshare in central London that we should be able to afford together. If, of course, we ever actually manage to get out of this laboratory and out to lunch.” He tapped his knuckles against the door meaningfully. “Are you coming, or should I just go collect my riding crop now?” he asked.   
  
John sent one more helpless glance at Mike before dropping his head with a sigh. “Sure,” he decided, running his hand through his hair. Mike probably wouldn’t have set him up with a serial killer (he hoped), he thought he was a bit too old and too lame to worry about being raped, and there was no reason to kidnap him, so at worst he absolutely wouldn’t be able to stand the man and he’d hobble back to his apartment. Why not?   
  
The man grinned blindingly and motioned him out the door. “So, may I pick up my riding crop now, or shall I leave it in the dubiously responsible hands of Miss Hooper?” Sherlock asked.   
  
“Oh, what the Hell. Bring it along.”   


* * *

They ended up taking a cab to the restaurant in deference to John’s leg, but Sherlock insisted in paying the balance. The cab ride itself was deafeningly silent: Sherlock seemed content to wait for John to start the conversation, but John didn’t have the slightest idea where to start. With each passing moment the atmosphere grew more oppressive, and John’s hand was shaking like a leaf by the time he crawled out of the door. He clenched it behind his back as Sherlock exited, all lanky long limbs, and gestured to the restaurant with his cane. “Angelo’s, huh?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”   
  
Sherlock snorted and led him through the door and to the first table by the window. John leaned his cane against the wall and settled himself in. “Of course not. You’re staying in the East End of London, and your therapist is relatively nearby. You’d have no reason to venture this far to the other side of the city just to have lunch at a previously unknown restaurant.” He glanced behind him and caught the eye of a bustling man with bushy grey hair. “Incidentally, I happen to know the owner. He owes me a favor.”   
  
John was still staring at Sherlock, eyes wide at the casually stated knowledge of his everyday life, when the man stepped up to their table. “Sherlock! I see you’ve finally brought a date!” The man turned to John, who was now shocked for a completely different reason. “I’ve been telling him and telling him to go out and find somebody who makes him happy, and here you are! Oh, thank you, my boy; if you make our Sherlock happy, you make all of London happy.” The man was clasping both of John’s hands within his own, and was it too late to escape and run for his apartment? John was starting to think uneasily that perhaps he had been mistaken in assuming that he wasn’t attractive enough for a rapist.   
  
Sherlock came to John’s rescue by drawing the man’s attention away. “This is Angelo, John. He was under strong suspicion for a particularly brutal triple-homicide several months ago, but I managed to successfully prove that he was across London at the time, burglaring an elderly woman’s house.” At that, he glared mildly at Angelo. John was just happy that the lunatic had released him and had placed a hand on the back of Sherlock’s chair instead.   
  
“If it weren’t for Sherlock, here, I’d have gone to prison,” Angelo bragged. “Saved my life and set me right, he did.”

“You still went to prison,” Sherlock corrected the man with a roll of his eyes.  
  
“Yes, but only for a few weeks. It could have been a lot worse. I never would have made it in prison; I’d have died one of those men who only get mentioned in studies on prison violence.” With a brisk clap, Angelo pulled two menus from the pouch on his apron and placed them in front of the two men. “Now, you two order anything off the menu – anything at all – and it’s on the house. I’ll just go grab a candle for the table: It’s more romantic.” With a saucy wink and a whirl of fabric, the man was gone.  
  
John remained silent, staring at the door the man had vanished through, as Sherlock pushed his menu away and watched John expectantly. After a few moments, John felt that he had recovered enough to protest the situation. “I’m not your date.” _That’s it? I could at least be offended that he brought me to a restaurant owned by a criminal. For that matter, why am I still here?_  
  
“Of course not; we’ve only just acquainted ourselves with each other. However, you should still feel free to take advantage of his offer of anything on the menu. I suspect that you’ll find just about everything delicious.”  
  
Deciding to set aside his bewilderment of the strange turn his day had taken, John opened his menu and scanned the items. “What’ll you be having?” he asked. Despite the offer of free food, his manners required that he base his choice on the price of his partner’s meal.  
  
Sherlock shrugged, eyes still locked on John. “I’m not having anything. I don’t eat while I’m working; it slows me down terribly. Don’t eat much at all, really.” He tilted his head. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”  
  
Several increasingly ludicrous scenarios ran though John’s mind – _He’s anorexic and has self-image issues – He really is a serial killer or a rapist and Angelo’s in on it; they’re going to poison my food – He’s secretly part of the secret service or something and has to be on the lookout for people trying to kill him, so he won’t eat unless someone taste-tests it first_ – before he could drag his imagination back under control and stare at the stranger across from him. “You don’t eat,” he repeated flatly, placing the menu back on the table.  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I did say that, yes. Will it make you uncomfortable to only cook for one while in the flat?”  
  
“Uncomfortable.” John ran a hand through his hair and shook his head in disbelief. “Uncomfortable. Yes, it bloody well makes me uncomfortable.” He grabbed his cane and stood up, aware that his voice was rising and that he was about to make a scene. “You don’t eat, you know things about me that you shouldn’t, you single-handedly got a man off a murder charge against the suspicions of the police, you bring a bloody _riding crop_ to lunch with a man you’ve just met and with whom you’ve already decided you want to share a flat, and you’re wondering if I’m _uncomfortable?”_ Breathing hard, John slammed his palm against the table in the suddenly silent restaurant and loomed over Sherlock. “Who the _Hell_ are you?”  
  
Before Sherlock could reply, John straightened and forced his panicked temper back under control. “No,” he said, turning for the door. “Never mind, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know. Just stay away from me.” The door jingled as it closed behind him, cutting off the man’s blank expression.  
  
He had only managed to hobble half a block before Sherlock caught up with him. Hand on the phone in his pocket, ready to dial 9-9-9 by touch if it was necessary, John turned back to face him with a thunderous expression.  
  
“John, wait,” Sherlock pled, stopping at his side. The bastard wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have acted like that; I just wanted to see if you would figure it out. Please, don’t leave.” As he spoke, he stripped his gloves and shoved them unceremoniously into the pocket of his coat. “Just let me explain, and then we can go look at the flat, and everything will be alright again. Okay?”

John weighed the benefits of hearing him out against just walking away and heading back to his apartment – He had half a mind to call on Mike again and ask just what kind of people he was associating with nowadays! – and decided that if he could persuade the crazy man to leave him alone he might be able to escape this whole episode without a stalker. Shifting his weight to his other leg, he nodded. “You have two minutes to convince me to not walk away right now. If you can’t, you’ll leave me alone from now on. Got it?”   
  
Sherlock didn’t waste time acknowledging the demand; he merely grabbed John’s upper arm and dragged him into an alleyway away from the passersby’s attention. John tensed and gripped his cane, ready to swing and fight his way out if he needed to. His thumb hovered over the send button on his phone.   
  
The words tumbled out of Sherlock’s mouth so quickly that John almost couldn’t understand him. “I know what I know about you partly from observation, but also partly because I knew you before. I didn’t tell you right away because I was curious if you would recognize me and because I wanted to see how you would behave with me if I had been a total stranger. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have done that; please don’t leave me. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, and now that you’re here you have to stay. We can share the flat – I really don’t have enough money to pay for it; never really got the hang of working for income instead of pleasure – and it’ll be just like before. I really am sorry for not introducing myself properly when we first met, but I’ll do it now.” As John reeled from the flood of words, Sherlock held up his hand, palm facing John, and clearly said, “You can’t eat me. I’m a doctor.”   
  
John’s brain just flat-out stopped. _Impossible,_ he knew. _The chances that we’d both be in London, both be looking for a flatmate, and both know Mike Stamford are astronomical. There is no way this is actually happening._ He stared blankly at this unbelievable man who was just waiting, expression flat and hand held between them. His mind flashed back over their afternoon, and he realized that Sherlock had never actually made physical skin-to-skin contact with anyone. _Then again, what are the chances that an alien would land not a kilometre away from me in Afghanistan when I was the only one around?_   
  
When he felt that oil-plastic sensation against his hand, everything that had felt wrong in the last year suddenly seemed to be too much to bear, and a broken sob escaped him as he threw himself at the alien, shoulders shaking. Sherrinford wrapped his arms around him and pressed him against the wool coat. John let all the loneliness and hurt from the last year gush out in heaving sobs and clutched at the alien’s back, tears soaking the fabric on Sherrinford’s chest. A brush and sudden pressure against the top of his head told John that Sherrinford had let his head drop down to rest on John’s, and they stood like that for several minutes while John’s heart bled. At last the tears stopped, and John felt empty and wrung dry; he released the greatcoat and pushed back to look Sherrinford in the face. Sherrinford held him close for a few more seconds before reluctantly letting John step back.   
  
“It’s you,” John breathed. “God, it’s really you.” He sucked in a breath and punched the alien in the arm, hard. “Dammit, why didn’t you say something right away? I thought you were a murderer or a rapist or something!”   
  
Sherrinford’s complete and utter lack of reaction to that was suddenly the funniest thing John had seen in months, and he collapsed against Sherrinford’s chest in a fit of giggles. When he got himself under control again, he just stayed leaning against the taller man. Sherrinford tightened his arms briefly before relaxing them and speaking. “John, if you’re alright now, we really should go look at that flat. I think you’ll like it, but if you don’t we can look somewhere else. I don’t care where we live as long as you’re there. I’ve missed you so much.”

“Hm, funny. I feel the same way,” John mumbled into the greatcoat. After all the shocks and emotional surprises of the day, John felt exhausted and just wanted a place to take a good nap. Preferably with Sherrinford close enough that he could reach out and grab him to make sure he was real when he woke up. “Thank you,” he breathed, not really sure what he was thanking him for.  
  
The chest under his cheek rose just enough to bring in the air to say, “You’re welcome,” and John felt more alive in that moment than he had in the last year.

* * *

This time, they decided to walk to their destination. John announced that he really wasn’t hungry anymore, and that even if he was he wouldn’t want to go back into Angelo’s. Sherrinford had merely smiled at this and wiped off John’s face to clear the tear tracks. As they passed the streets, though, John hobbling along with Sherrinford’s longer stride, he felt his depression begin to rise up again at his disability. His mood steadily darkened with each click of the cane against the cement until he found himself glaring hatefully at the damned thing.   
  
“You’ve changed,” Sherrinford said suddenly, breaking the downward spiral of his thoughts. “What exactly happened after I left? I told you to be careful.”   
  
John flinched and looked away. “I forgot I wasn’t bullet-proof for a few seconds. Got shot in the shoulder,” he replied brusquely. “But I think that you’ve changed a bit more than I have.” He motioned to Sherrinford’s body meaningfully.   
  
Sherrinford rolled his eyes. “No, I haven’t changed at all; I’ve just taken on a new form. We’ve had this conversation before.” Seeing John’s exasperation, he grinned and continued. “But I did find my brother. He helped me to form a different appearance and name; I accidentally made a bit of a scene in the airport when I arrived from Afghanistan, and I couldn’t stay affiliated with my previous identity.”   
  
“‘A bit of a scene’? God help me, do I really want to know?”   
  
“Probably not. Just remember that there weren’t exactly a plethora of human females on base back in Afghanistan. I may have gotten a bit over-enthusiastic in my curiosity upon seeing so many in such a small place.”   
  
John thought back to the manic interest Sherrinford had shown whenever he introduced him to something new and juxtaposed it onto a crowded international airport. He grimaced. “Christ. No wonder you needed to change your identity.”   
  
The laugh that rewarded him brought a smile to John’s face. “It did have one major benefit, though,” Sherrinford admitted. “Mycroft managed to locate me relatively quickly after that. We decided that I would take on a new name and form to reduce the possibility of backlash. I’ve been in London ever since.”   
  
“So how is your mission-for-peace thing going? I have to admit, I’m not really seeing any differences based on the news. And I have been watching; you never know when your best friend from Afghanistan might pop up,” he joked.   
  
“It’s more-or-less on track; these things can’t happen immediately, you know. I admit that I’m actually rather annoyed with Mycroft at the moment, though.”   
  
“Oh?” John prompted.   
  
“He’s focusing his energies on the global aspect of peace and almost completely ignoring the individual aspect. Admittedly, he’s never had to deal with a culture like yours before; in your society, the individual holds just as much – if not more – power as the whole. Ours is almost the opposite: Everything is done for the sake of the many rather than the few. I keep trying to explain to him that he needs to convince the people of your planet to be peaceful or the best treaty in the universe won’t be effective, but he won’t listen to me. I considered sending him off to Afghanistan to stay with you for a while and see what I was talking about, but he vetoed that idea pretty quickly.”   
  
John blinked. “Why would sending him to me have helped? If anything, I’m – I _was_ – an Army drone. My job was to follow orders. Wouldn’t that just help his case?”   
  
Sherrinford stopped walking and just stared at John. “John. You kept an alien’s presence secret from your commanding officers for almost an entire year because you felt that it was the right thing to do. Trust me: You’re a shining example of individuality.”

Face flushed, John hid his expression by walking forward again and staring at the ground. “I’m really not,” he muttered. Sherrinford sighed but didn’t respond.   
  
A few metres later, John asked about the flat they were going to visit. “What’s it like?”   
  
“It’s a two-story affair with a bedroom on the bottom floor and another on the upper. I’ve already bought a bed that you can use; I had anticipated needing to hide my nature from an unaware human, but you already know that I don’t sleep. The wallpapering is frankly atrocious, but the living room is fairly spacious. It would usually be much too expensive for us, but I helped the landlady prove her husband guilty of murder, so she’s giving us a discount price.” An expression of distaste crossed his features. “The husband was executed in Florida. For some reason, this pleased her inordinately. John, why is your species so happy to see other people die? It makes my brother’s job much more difficult.”   
  
They’d had this conversation before in Afghanistan. Several times, in fact. John ran a hand through his hair and tried to explain it in a new way that Sherrinford would understand. “We don’t like it when bad people have the chance to commit more crimes, Sherrinford.”   
  
“Sherlock,” Sherrinford interrupted.   
  
“What?”   
  
“I’m going by Sherlock now. Sherlock Holmes. If you keep calling me Sherrinford, it might spark curiosity about my past. My brother has made a decent paper trail for my new identity, but under close scrutiny there’s no guarantee that it will hold. Please, call me Sherlock.”   
  
So Sherrinford was gone for good, then. _Alright,_ John thought. _It’s no different from him changing from small, blonde, and tan to tall, pale, and dark-haired. It’s still the same crazy alien inside. I can deal with this._ He forced his voice to remain steady and casual as he regained the thread of conversation. “Sherlock, then. We’d rather have an evil person killed than give him the opportunity to escape and commit more evil.”   
  
“But in doing so you’re also denying him or her the opportunity to reform and become a good person. And there is no such thing as a purely evil person – many of the most ‘evil’ crimes are committed for love’s sake. Do you think an evil person can love?”   
  
John considered the question. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I think that any love that allows someone to kill another person in cold blood is not really love, but I don’t know if a truly evil person can feel honest love or not.”   
  
Sherlock nodded. “It’s something to think about. ‘There but for the grace of God’ and all that.” He tapped John’s shoulder and pointed to the building on their right. “This is it: 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson should be in right now; she likes to watch the daytime telly at this hour.”   
  
The Mrs. Hudson in question was a cheerful, elderly woman who patted Sherlock’s arm as she ushered them in. Sherlock gestured to John and made the introductions. “Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”   
  
“Oh, hello, there; come in!” She stepped back to let the two men through the doorway. She disappeared down the side hallway to what John assumed was her own flat, and Sherlock led John up the stairs to the flat.   
  
At the top of the staircase, Sherlock smiled gently at John and swung the door open dramatically. “Home sweet home,” he said wryly. John grinned as he entered the living room, but quickly sobered upon seeing the space before him.   
  
The area looked like a minor tornado had gone through it: Papers were strewn across the floor and boxes full of strange memorabilia had been stacked haphazardly on almost every surface. He glanced into the kitchen and was greeted by what appeared to be a complete chemistry set on the kitchen table. Books were everywhere, placed neatly in bookshelves and stacked dangerously on wobbly tables. John turned in a small circle and took everything in. _It’s a mess,_ he thought, _but a few days’ work should straighten it out again._ He looked back at Sherlock, who was leaning against the doorframe with a small smile on his face. _And I’d have my alien back. Definitely worth it._   
  
His grin seemed to draw Sherlock into the room. They stood together and looked over the flat.

“It’s lovely,” John said. “I think it’ll work perfectly.”  
  
Sherlock brushed his bare wrist against John’s hand. “Yes. Yes, my thoughts exactly.”  
  
“When we get some of this junk cleaned out –”  
  
“I’ve just about moved in – oh.”  
  
They stared at each other, chagrined, until Sherlock cleared his throat and began bustling through the flat. He grabbed a sheaf of papers and dumped it into one of the boxes – John winced, sure that it was about to tumble from its precarious perch – before nudging the stack of cardboard into better order. “I can pick up a bit, of course,” he assured John almost frantically.  
  
John felt a helpless grin tug at the corners of his mouth as he watched Sherlock unsuccessfully attempt to tidy the room. He left Sherlock to his work, deciding that a bit of cleaning couldn’t go wrong no matter what the reason, and moved to examine the over-stuffed bookcase. “I see you’ve become quite the avid reader,” he commented, scanning the titles. He could only read about a third of them; the rest were in French, German, Russian, and what he was fairly certain was Nordic.  
  
“Yes, well, books do seem to be the quickest and most efficient way to get information. You wouldn’t believe the number of poisons to be found on your planet; it’s a wonder you all managed to survive long enough to evolve into your present forms.”  
  
“It’s a dangerous world out there,” he agreed. A thought occurred to John, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought to ask it in Afghanistan. “What substances do we have that harm you?” he asked. “I need to know what to keep out of the flat; I’d hate to bring home a jar of jam and have you go into convulsions.”  
  
The laugh surprised him. “I’ve actually made a bit of a study of that, and so far I haven’t found anything on your planet that would be actively harmful to me.”  
  
John blinked, about to ask about the differences between their physiologies, when a title on the bookshelf drew his attention. His breath caught in his throat, and he reverently pulled the book off the shelf. _“Frankenstein,”_ he whispered. Its cover was worn and beaten, but the pages inside were nearly perfectly preserved. There was a stain on one corner of the title page from when John had spilled his coffee; Sherrinford had thrown a fit.  
  
When he looked up, Sherlock had abandoned his cleaning effort to stand at John’s elbow. His face was blankly expressionless, but he had lifted his hand so that it hovered over John’s shoulder. “I tried to keep it from getting damaged,” he said flatly, “but with the frequency with which I took it out, some wear was inevitable.” He pulled his hand back and took a step back. “I’m sorry; I know it’s a gift and I should have taken better care of it.”  
  
 _Why is he apologizing?_ John wondered, still reeling from the realization that despite the year apart, Sherlock had kept his gift and remembered him; he’d even reread it enough times to wear down the cover, despite the fact that he had perfect memory recall and would have had no reason to read it again. He realized he was trembling slightly and abruptly remembered how Sherrinford used to ripple when he was frustrated or angry. _He thinks I’m mad at him!_  
  
John tried to still his shakes, but they only seemed to get worse; Sherlock features were starting to blur at the edges as he panicked. “I’m not angry,” John assured him, giving up on controlling his trembling. “I’m not mad at you at all.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him warily for a moment before hesitantly coming closer again. “Then why are you doing that?” he asked, cautiously placing one hand high on John’s back.  
  
Unable to articulate how touched he felt by the fact that Sherlock had kept and appreciated the book for so long, John shook his head and buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. The alien froze for a brief moment before wrapping his arms around John and rubbing his back soothingly. “Thank you,” John managed eventually. “God, thank you.”  
  
The moment was broken by Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps echoing up the stairs. John hurriedly pulled himself away from Sherlock and cleared his throat awkwardly as he tried to compose himself. Sherlock, for his part, took several steps back and arranged his features into a genial expression.

“So how do you like it, Dr. Watson?” Mrs. Hudson asked. Smile firmly plastered on, John turned and nodded to her. Sherlock crossed the room between them to hang his coat on a rack in the corner. “There’s another bedroom upstairs,” she informed him, “if you’ll be needing two bedrooms, that is.”  
  
John glanced incredulously at Sherlock, who had frozen where he stood with his back turned. “Of course we’ll be needing two rooms,” he replied quickly. _Calm down. She couldn’t possibly know that he’s an insomniac alien._ “Why wouldn’t we?”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry; we get all types around here.” She put her hand over her mouth as if speaking confidentially. “Mrs. Turner next door has married ones.”  
  
The indignation he really should have felt at the implication was drowned out by the relief that Sherlock hadn’t been found out. He followed along after her as she berated Sherlock for already making a mess of the rooms. “Honestly, you’ve been living here for a month already; why haven’t you at least unpacked those boxes on the counter?”  
  
John shook his head as the woman bustled out of the flat with a promise to return with tea. He looked back at Sherlock and took a seat in one of the armchairs, punching the Union Flag pillow before sitting back against it. He watched as Sherlock fluttered around the room for a few more minutes before settling against his legs on the floor in front of him. Sherlock folded his arms and rested them on John’s lap, dropped his head on top of the whole pile, and closed his eyes.  
  
“It always took me a few seconds to remember the eyes-in-the-hair thing,” John chuckled, reaching down to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. The strands wound over and around his fingers, tickling lightly at the back of his hand. Sherlock hummed contentedly, and his scalp arched disconcertingly against John’s palm. It was so easy to forget that he was dealing with an alien; Sherlock was even better at playing human than he had been as Sherrinford. Moments of recent shock notwithstanding, he’d managed to convince John that he was completely human, albeit a weird one.  
  
“So you’ll stay?” Sherlock murmured. The hair gripped around John’s hand when he pretended to weigh his options.  
  
“Silly alien,” John chastised, squeezing the hair in his grasp reassuringly. “Of course I’ll stay. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”  
  
They remained that way until Sherlock stood suddenly and removed himself to the other side of the room with the explanation that “Mrs. Hudson is returning with the tea.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson was only too happy to draw up the paperwork for John to sign on with Sherlock, and by the end of teatime the two had signed up for a year-long lease. Mrs. Hudson bustled around the flat for a few more minutes, tidying Sherlock’s mess while disclaiming that she was “not your housekeeper, Dear; just your landlady. You’ll need to keep this place much cleaner in the future, or I’m afraid I’ll have to raise your rent. I don’t accept any slobs in my flats; no sir, I don’t.”  
  
As the afternoon faded into evening, Sherlock offered to escort John back to his apartment to collect his belongings. John blinked in surprise before deciding that he’d already signed the lease; why bother staying another night in the bland and lonely apartment when he could be here? They set off, John demanding that Sherlock let them stop for some food on the way back; lunch had been hours ago, and John hadn’t actually eaten anything. Sherlock huffed and fussed and pretended to be put-upon by the request, but he suggested a place that would be on their way where he could get a discount for yet another favor owed to him.  
  
The apartment was embarrassingly empty when they arrived, and John hurried through packing his things while Sherlock watched from the doorway. The landlord had given him several boxes to use when he had gone in to give him his notice – he’d been on a monthly lease, which was just about to expire, so there had been minimal fuss – and he set about filling these with his possessions. The laptop went in the bottom of one with his neatly folded clothes on top, and he emptied the contents of his desk drawer into another.

Sherlock straightened when John carefully placed his gun in the box. “You kept your gun,” he observed. “Why did you keep your gun?”   
  
John shook his head and pulled the gun out again to show it to the alien. “It’s not the same gun,” he explained. “I had to return my Browning to the RAMC when I was invalided back to London. This is a Sig; it’s stockier than the Browning. You see the differences now?”   
  
The alien stared at the weapon, obviously comparing it to the memory of John’s Browning, before nodding. “But why do you have a gun at all?” he asked, clearly confused.   
  
With a sigh, John placed the gun back in the box. “I had nightmares,” he confessed, back turned to Sherlock. “I would wake up screaming and clawing at my sides for my gun. I didn’t feel safe in London; I was always waiting for something to happen. I don’t carry the gun with me – I’m not a total idiot – but knowing that I had a gun and could defend myself in my apartment helped me sleep.” He shrugged awkwardly, uncomfortable with the admission. Behind him Sherlock was silent, and he winced as he remembered how much Sherrinford had detested needless violence and death. While he wasn’t using his gun actively – far from it; it spent most of its time in the desk drawer – Sherlock probably saw the simple fact that he had a gun as a betrayal of his mission for peace.   
  
Sherlock placed his hand on John’s shoulder, startling him into a small flinch. “I don’t like it,” the alien admitted, “but I can understand it.” John looked up, surprised, and Sherlock smiled flatly at him. “I don’t want you to keep it if the nightmares go away, though,” he said.   
  
John let out the breath of air he’d been holding. “Yeah,” he said, certain that the screaming nightmares weren’t going to leave him in peace any time soon. “That’s fine.” _And if they do, giving up the gun is more than a fair exchange._   
  
The two finished packing up John’s sparse room in a matter of minutes before heading out for Chinese on the way back to the flat. They sat the measly two boxes in the back of a cab, deciding to just bring them in with them when they stopped for food, and Sherlock gave the cabby the address of the restaurant.   
  
The conversation was light and easy as they ate, and John found himself relaxing and laughing in the buoyant atmosphere. The food was good, the company was excellent, and John thought to himself, _God, I haven’t felt this happy in months._ He made a mental note to take Mike out to lunch as a thank-you gift for reintroducing him to Sherlock when he paid the bill – Sherlock hadn’t eaten, of course, though he had gone to the bathroom to dispose of the tea he’d drunk earlier. John left the restaurant with a genuine smile on his face.   
  
Mrs. Hudson was in her flat with the lights off when they arrived, so they headed up the stairs as quietly as they could. Sherlock had both boxes wrapped up in his limbs, leaving John free to navigate the staircase with his cane, and he gently set them on the floor just inside the door. John, still giddy from the euphoria of the day, collapsed into the same armchair as earlier and grinned happily at the ceiling.   
  
A huff of amusement drew his attention to Sherlock, who was staring at him with a small smirk tugging at his lips. “I can’t help it,” John explained. “I’m just so damned _happy_ that I found you again. You don’t know how close I was to going insane.”   
  
The smirk dropped from Sherlock’s face to be replaced by a frown, and the alien settled himself over the back of John’s chair. “You _have_ changed,” he said, searching John’s face upside-down. “You would never have considered suicide when you were in Afghanistan” – John inhaled sharply at that, unaware that Sherlock had realized the depth of his depression – “and you should have had more personal effects than you did. But you packed light, as if you were preparing to flee at a moment’s notice.” John sat up to escape Sherlock’s gaze, but it was an almost physical presence on his back. “Something happened after I left – something more than just being shot. What?”   
  
John took a shuddering breath to steady himself and ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t ask me that,” he replied gruffly. “You weren’t there; you don’t have the right to ask me that.”

Silence reigned behind him for several seconds, and he started to relax. Then Sherlock breathed, “Oh.” _Hell,_ John thought, tensing up again. His shoulder twinged painfully. “I see. It’s obvious now: You lost your support. I wasn’t there anymore, and you’d removed yourself from the other soldiers already.”   
  
“Shut up,” John whispered.   
  
The alien continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You didn’t feel that you could trust anyone anymore, so you became hyper-vigilant to protect yourself. This eventually ran you down until you couldn’t think past the constant paranoia, and in the mental strain you forgot for a moment that I wasn’t there to protect you from bullets as you ran to the next patient.”   
  
“Shut _up!”_ John shouted. He grabbed his cane to lever himself out of the chair and whirled to face the alien. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! You don’t get to talk about that; if you hadn’t _left me_ I wouldn’t have had to cover my own back; if you’d have just left me alone in the first place I’d have had Bill and the others to watch out for me. But you showed up, screwed up my life, and then _left.” I’m hyperventilating,_ he realized. He paced across the room and back, trying to find an outlet for the issues he hadn’t even known he’d had that didn’t involve throwing something sharp at his best friend.   
  
Sherlock interrupted his path and wrapped him up in a hug, ignoring John’s furious struggles. “John, if I hadn’t showed up you would have taken a lethal shot to the ribs. If I hadn’t left, you would have been fine for the rest of your tour, I’m sure; the world, however, would have suffered when Mycroft finally broke after two years without any sympathetic company. He was in bad enough shape when I met up with him after only a year. I don’t regret any of my actions – it was all necessary – but I’m sorry that I left you.” John had stopped fighting to free himself and was hanging limply in Sherlock’s arms, shaking with pent-up emotion. “I told you that I would never hurt you,” Sherlock whispered into his hair. “But I did, and I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”   
  
Eventually, John held Sherlock in return and let his shudders slowly subside. When he pulled away he was thankful that his cheeks were still dry, but he rubbed his hands across his eyes anyway as if it would wipe away the memories of the loneliness he’d suffered. _It doesn’t matter anymore,_ he told himself firmly. _He’s here now, and he’s going to stay. I won’t let him go again._   
  
A smaller, more honest part of him whispered, _I can’t let him go again._   
  
They avoided each other in the tiny flat for a while after that, John unpacking his things in the upstairs bedroom and Sherlock busying himself in the kitchen with the chemistry set. John put everything away in a pathetically short amount of time, so he headed back downstairs to the living room and perused the bookshelves again. He was somewhat surprised to find an entire section dedicated to fiction, and he devoted the next several minutes to looking through the selection. A mix of amusement and horror raced through him when he saw a copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ sitting idly beside _Through the Looking Glass._ He gave a vague thought to how long it would take before Sherlock decided to try out the form of a giant blue caterpillar before determining that some things were better left unconsidered.   
  
After the wild mood swings of the day, John felt sure that any sleep would end in yet another bloody nightmare, so he was surprised when he sat down in the chair with one of Sherlock’s books opened in his hands and woke up in a surprisingly comfortable bed several hours later. He pushed himself up and glanced around, realizing that Sherlock must have noticed him sleeping, carried him up to bed, and even changed him into his nightclothes. Frankly, John was amazed that he hadn’t woken up mid-transit; after Sherrinford had left, he’d become a ridiculously light sleeper.

John dragged himself out of the bed and wandered down the stairs, thankful that Sherlock had remembered to bring his cane up for him as well. Sherlock had dropped the human form and was spread out across the flat, various limbs performing several tasks simultaneously. When John reached the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock stopped his activities and reformed as a human, but John waved him off. “You can go back to the way you were,” he assured him. “It doesn’t bother me.”   
  
Sherlock stared at him. “You’re sure?” he verified. “I can’t hear you when I’m like that. If I can’t see your face to read your lips I won’t understand you if you talk to me.”   
  
Temporarily sidetracked, John asked, “Really? You can’t? Why not?”   
  
“Hearing in humans involves the interpretation of vibrations, captured by the shell of the ear, along the timpanic membrane in the inner ear,” Sherlock explained. John rolled his eyes. _As if I need that lecture again; I am a doctor, you know._ “In my natural state, I don’t have any such structures. While I can feel vibrations and usually interpret them to some degree of accuracy, I don’t form the necessary membrane or outer ear when I’m not formed as a human.”   
  
“Again: Why not?”   
  
Sherlock sighed and gave him a horribly disappointed look. “Because it looks ridiculous, John. Why else?”   
  
John snorted but couldn’t fight the grin. “Either way, it really doesn’t bother me. Promise. And if I need to get your attention, I’ll just tap you twice. Sound like a plan?”   
  
“I’ll see you coming before you even touch me,” Sherlock corrected, but he was already melting back into the shapeless grey blob. John smiled reassuringly when Sherlock didn’t move immediately and walked past him to the kitchen for the leftover Chinese food. Behind him, he heard a soft rustle as the alien moved across the carpet, and a glance over his shoulder proved that he had resumed most of his interrupted activities.   
  
A thin tendril had extended into the kitchen, however, and it hovered near the chemistry set uncertainly. John waved it on and pulled the take-out box from the fridge, gathering cutlery as he traversed the kitchen. On his way back to the living room, he intentionally brushed against the tendril and smiled at the light grey mass. “No worries,” he reassured it, making sure to exaggerate the motions of his mouth, and laughed when Sherlock bumped him in return.   
  
The floor was almost completely covered by Sherlock’s body, but as he walked across the room Sherlock opened holes for John to walk through. John settled into the armchair and set the Chinese on the coffee table. The book he’d been planning to read the night before had been replaced on the bookshelf, so he went downstairs and collected the paper. Sherlock once again opened a path for him to return to the armchair, and John scanned the headlines while he ate.   
  
Around him, Sherlock shifted and writhed as he went about his work, and if John occasionally reached down to run his fingers across Sherlock’s skin, he was secure in the knowledge that the arching brushes he got in return weren’t accidental.


	5. A Stranger in Pink

The front page of the newspaper sported the headline, **“Three Deaths: Serial Suicides?”**   
  
John grimaced and ran his fingers over Sherlock’s skin reassuringly. “Bloody depressing, isn’t it?” he asked. “Those poor people.” He remembered how close he’d come to turning his gun on himself and silently thanked Sherlock for showing up when he had. He took a bite of cold Chinese and settled in to read over the article.   
  
John would admit to being startled when Sherlock surged up from the floor and reformed as a human without giving any indication of intention. “What happened?” he asked, eyes wide over the top of the newspaper.   
  
“There’s been a fourth,” Sherlock said, already reaching for his coat. He’d formed the rest of his clothes from himself, John realized; the coat would prevent other people from accidentally brushing against him.   
  
Then he registered what Sherlock had said. “A fourth? What, a fourth suicide?” He looked back down at the paper.   
  
“Yes, of course a fourth suicide; what else? But there’s something different this time.” The alien glanced out the window as he mused before turning to face the door. John could hear footsteps rushing up the stairs and placed his paper and plate of food on the table to stand.   
  
A man with graying hair stepped through the door, but he hadn’t even opened his mouth before Sherlock demanded, “Where?”   
  
“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” the man replied somewhat breathlessly. His gaze slipped to the side as he panted, only to catch on John, who was still standing awkwardly by the chair in his sleepwear. Eyes widened incredulously, he snapped back to Sherlock. “Really, Sherlock?”   
  
“What? Oh, that’s my new flatmate. Focus, please: What’s different with this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”   
  
The man obviously struggled to bite his tongue on several responses before finally settling with, “You know how they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?”   
  
“Who’s on forensics?”   
  
“Anderson,” the man said with a grimace.   
  
Sherlock exhaled explosively. “Anderson won’t work with me; I _need_ an assistant.” He turned to face away, and John caught a hint of a wink where the grey-haired man wouldn’t see it.   
  
“Look, will you come?”   
  
“I need to put a stop to a few of my experiments; I’ll be right behind you,” the alien confirmed.   
  
With a breathed, “Thank you,” the man disappeared the way he came with a last, confused glance tossed in John’s direction.   
  
As soon as the front door closed, Sherlock spun and grinned. “Brilliant!” he exclaimed, startling John again. “Four suicides, and now a note. Hah! It’s Christmas.” He rushed through the flat, suspending the various things he’d been doing. Seeing John just standing still in the middle of the room, he rushed over and clasped him on the arms. “John, go get dressed; there’s no time to waste!”   
  
Thoroughly bewildered by the turn of events, having expected a more-or-less quiet day in, John let the alien usher him up the stairs and got himself dressed as requested. The alien was practically bouncing when he returned, impatience written in every line of its body. “You’re rather terrifyingly good at acting out emotions,” John commented as they hurried down to street level.   
  
“What? Oh, that. It comes naturally, after a while,” the alien explained, already hailing a cab. “If you associate a certain action with a certain emotion long enough, it becomes instinctive to perform the action when you feel the emotion. Pavlov’s dogs: Simple. Now hurry! I don’t want to give them any longer to destroy the scene than I have to.”   
  
The cab ride was fairly long, and John spent most of it grilling Sherlock. “Who was that?” was the immediate question.   
  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade. He’s in charge of the suicide cases. Next.”   
  
“Where are we going?”

“Crime scene. You should have been able to pick that up from the conversation in the flat; don’t be dull. Next.”  
  
“Okay, _why_ are we going to the crime scene?”  
  
At that, Sherlock paused and looked over at John. “I never told you what I’m doing now, did I?” he asked. “I’m a consulting detective; I help the police when they get in over their heads, which is always.”  
  
“Consulting detective,” John repeated flatly. “There’s no such thing.”  
  
“I did invent the job, so I can forgive your ignorance.”  
  
“Right. How exactly did you get into the business of consulting detecting?” He remembered that Sherlock had mentioned his brother being a major part of nearly every world government. “Your brother helped you get an in with Scotland Yard?” he guessed.  
  
Sherlock sniffed. “Hardly. I don’t need to rely on my brother’s influence; my ability speaks for itself.” He turned to face John. “Look, you remember how I made you uncomfortable by pointing out several facts of your life when we first met?”  
  
 _Rather hard to forget. I almost had a heart attack._ “Yes. You knew because you had known me before but didn’t deign to share that rather crucial information. I’m still rather irritated about that, by the way.”  
  
“Wrong,” Sherlock said. “I knew _some of it_ because I’d known you before. The rest of it I figured out the hard way: Observation.” He gestured to John’s cane. “Obviously I already knew that you’d been in Afghanistan, but you have a psychosomatic limp.”  
  
“Wait. What makes you say that it’s psychosomatic?” Granted, John’s therapist kept telling him that it was, but she also said he had trust issues and PTSD. He considered the evening before. _Okay, I might give her the trust issues,_ he privately admitted, _but not the PTSD._  
  
“When we met in the lab, you didn’t ask for a chair despite your heavy limp; you’d forgotten about it. That means it’s at least partly psychosomatic. So; psychosomatic limp means that the circumstances surrounding it were traumatic. In Afghanistan, that means wounded in action. You’d gotten used to me being your bullet-proof shield before I left, which leads me to the most probably course of injury: You were shot.  
  
“I also surprised you by knowing that you were at the lab to meet a potential flatmate. That was fairly obvious; I had just mentioned to Mike that morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for, and you showed up later that day: An old friend of Mike’s invalided back from Afghanistan, looking for an affordable place to live. Simple.  
  
“Then there was the part about living in the East End of London, near your therapist. You’ve got a distinct type of dust coating your jacket; it’s from heavy construction. Where is there always construction going on due to renovations? East End. You were looking for a flatmate, not just looking for a cheaper place in London to live. That tells me that the apartment where you were previously living is already inexpensive, but you still can’t afford it comfortably; not surprising with an Army pension. East End is looking good.  
  
“Next: Your therapist. When you started looking for a therapist, you knew that you wouldn’t want to take public transit to and from – you used to hate traveling in the cramped convoys – and you wouldn’t have enough money to constantly pay for cab fare. That means it would have to be in walking distance. Taking your limp into consideration, psychosomatic though it is, you probably managed to find a therapist within two kilometres from a cheap apartment. That’s not too far to walk, especially if you get distracted and forget about your limp. Where can you find a competent therapist within two kilometres of a cheap apartment? East End.”  
  
Sherlock turned to look out the window, but his grin was clearly visible. “You see: I don’t need to rely on my brother to get me in with Scotland Yard.”  
  
John stared at him for several seconds, trying to take in the rapid-fire explanation. _I’ve been underestimating him,_ he realized. “That was amazing,” he announced.  
  
A few seconds of silence passed before Sherlock turned to look at him. “You think so?”

“Of course it was. Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary. I knew that you could see things that the rest of us don’t, but putting everything together like that – it’s almost unbelievable.”  
  
Smiling lightly, Sherlock shook his head. “That’s not what people normally say; you were closer the first time.”  
  
“What do people normally say?”  
  
“Piss off.”  
  
John chuckled and looked out the window.

* * *

Despite it being late in the morning, the street in front of the police cordon was almost completely empty of curious bystanders. John quirked an eyebrow, wondering where everyone was, but allowed Sherlock to lead him to a policewoman at the perimeter. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?” he wondered. Sherlock was the consulting detective, after all; he was just an ex-Army doctor with a limp. A psychosomatic limp, if Sherlock and his therapist were to be believed.   
  
Sherlock ignored him in favor of greeting the officer. “Ah, Donovan. How nice to see you again.” His sarcastic tone drew John’s surprised attention. _What’s with the snarl?_   
  
“Hello, Freak,” she replied. John’s head snapped around as he stared at her incredulously. _What the Hell?_   
  
“I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock announced neutrally.   
  
“Why?” the officer challenged.   
  
The alien assured her, “I was invited.”   
  
_“Why?”_ she asked sharply.   
  
“I think he wants me to take a look.” The guileless tone and expression were so obviously faked that John winced.   
  
“Well you know what I think, don’t you?”   
  
“Always, Sally.” Sherlock gave her a once-over and tilted his head. “You didn’t make it home last night.”   
  
Donovan sputtered indignantly for a few seconds while John stared at Sherlock disbelievingly. The officer changed the subject by motioning to John. “And who’s this?” she demanded.   
  
Without a sign of smugness, Sherlock introduced them. “Colleague of mine; Dr. John Watson. Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. An old friend.” _Right._   
  
“A colleague,” Donovan repeated incredulously. “How do _you_ get a colleague – did he follow you home?” she asked John.   
  
This posturing was getting ridiculous. It was like being back in the soldiers’ barracks again. _Time to diffuse it._ “Other way around, actually,” John replied easily. He turned away from Donovan’s shocked expression to ask Sherlock, “Would it be better if I just waited?”   
  
“No,” came the decisive reply. The alien was grinning, though, and John returned it gently.   
  
Donovan shook her head at them and lifted the tape for John to pass through. “Freak’s here,” she announced into her radio. “Bringing him in.”   
  
They were accosted at the entrance to the building, as well; this time, it was by a somewhat oily man. “Ah, Anderson,” Sherlock drawled. “Here we are again.”   
  
“It’s a crime scene; I don’t want it contaminated,” Anderson demanded as he stripped off his latex gloves. “Are we clear on that?”   
  
“Quite clear.” John watched, bemused, as Sherlock added, “And is your wife away for long?”   
  
“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that.”   
  
“The mud outside your front door told me that.”   
  
That threw Anderson for a second. “The mud told you that,” he repeated flatly.   
  
“Yes; there’s some ground-up asphalt mixed in with it – very distinctive – and you’ve got a bit of it on your face.” He motioned to the light smear on Anderson’s forehead. “You scraped your shoe off with your finger, but forgot about it when you pushed your hair back.”   
  
Anderson rubbed his hand across his forehead to wipe off the mud. “Well of course I had mud on my shoes; I had to walk though it to get to the car this morning!”   
  
Sherlock glanced past Anderson to where Donovan was standing and pointedly dropped his gaze to her heels. “So did Sergeant Donovan. May I go in?” He almost sounded pleasant.   
  
After a few more veiled accusations, they gained access to the building. “You certainly don’t waste time making enemies, do you?” John hissed at him.   
  
“I was merely stating the facts,” Sherlock replied calmly, leading them through the front rooms. “How they react to those facts is entirely their own business.”

“Still, you shouldn’t go around revealing everyone’s secrets to the world at large; what happens if you’re the one on the receiving end?” _What if everyone finds out you’re an alien?_  
  
The idea actually seemed to amuse him. “Really, John; do have a bit more faith in me. I’m not about to go making it obvious. Sergeant Donovan believes that I am a sociopath; everyone else believes that I am an eccentric genius. I’m not in any danger.” He motioned John over to a table covered with scrubs. The man from the flat – DI Lestrade – was already suiting up himself. “You should wear one of these.”  
  
Lestrade paused in his motions, noticing the newcomer, and turned to Sherlock. “Who’s this?”  
  
“He’s with me,” he replied dismissively.  
  
“Yeah, but who is he? I can’t just let your boyfriend into a crime scene.”  
  
Sherlock overrode John’s choked protests. “I said: He’s with me.”  
  
“And I’m not his boyfriend,” John interjected. The DI raised an eyebrow in disbelief but let it go. John noticed that Sherlock had replaced his leather gloves with latex, but that he’d made no motions to remove the coat. “Aren’t you going to put one on?” he asked, holding up the suit.  
  
Both men glanced at him silently before turning away, and John shrugged. It wasn’t as if Sherlock had to worry about DNA, he supposed. _Probably. What is he made out of, anyway?_ After John and Lestrade had finished suiting up, the DI led them up a spiraling staircase to the dead body. “I can give you two minutes,” Lestrade informed Sherlock. He proceeded to give Sherlock a rundown of the information they had on the dead woman – not very much.  
  
Sherlock paused just inside the doorway and looked over the corpse. John stopped to look her over as well. The woman was laying face-down on the floor in a pink skirt suit. John felt a spike of pity for her and grimaced in sympathy. _There but for the grace of God I go,_ he thought, and he sent a grateful glance to the alien at his side.  
  
Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the alien knelt on the floor beside the woman’s head, coat flared out behind him, and started brushing over the pink jacket and examining various parts of the woman’s body. When he stopped and straightened, Lestrade asked anxiously, “Got anything?”  
  
“Not much,” Sherlock replied, shucking the latex gloves and pulling his cell phone from the pocket of his coat.  
  
Behind John, Anderson appeared in the doorway. “She’s German,” he announced to the room. “Rache: German for ‘Revenge’.” He was about to continue, but Sherlock closed the door in his face.  
  
“Yes, thank you for your input,” he said, already typing away on the Smartphone.  
  
“So she’s German,” Lestrade confirmed.  
  
Sherlock didn’t even glance at him. “No, of course she’s not; she’s from out of town, though.” He made a few more observations before asking John for his opinion.  
  
“About the message?” John asked, caught off-guard.  
  
Sherlock smiled at him. “About the body; you’re a medical man.”  
  
The Detective Inspector argued with Sherlock for a few seconds while John stared at the alien. _I saw some of those books on your shelves,_ he thought. _They were advanced medical texts. You probably know more about it that I do. What are you playing at?_  
  
Lestrade gave him the go-ahead, though, so John folded himself down beside the woman. Sherlock settled across from him as Lestrade cleared the room. “Well?” Sherlock prompted him.  
  
“What am I doing here?” John asked flatly.  
  
“Helping me make a point.”  
  
“What point? That you can bully your way past police procedures and get a civilian into a crime scene? Yes, I think we can see that.”  
  
“If I’m going to bring you with me in the future, I need to establish your right to be here early on. Trust me, you’re doing fine. Now what can you tell me?”  
  
 _Bloody lunatic,_ John thought, but he nevertheless looked over the corpse as Lestrade walked back in. “Asphyxiation,” he decided. “Probably passed out; choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol.” He looked up at Sherlock. “You said this was one of those suicides?” he verified.  
  
Lestrade interrupted Sherlock’s response. “Sherlock, two minutes; I need anything you’ve got.”

John and Lestrade watched as Sherlock rattled off a series of deductions, John becoming increasingly awed. It had been one thing to hear Sherlock describe his life, knowing that he’d at least known John before; this was something entirely different. He wondered how anyone could mistake Sherlock for a human and resolved to bring it up with him the next chance he got. How could he think he wasn’t being obvious? No human being could possibly catch that much data and correlate it like Sherlock did.   
  
“She could only be carrying a suitcase. Now where is it; what have you done with it?” Sherlock finally asked, kneeling over the body again.   
  
Lestrade shook his head, arms crossed. “There wasn’t a case.”   
  
That had surprised Sherlock; he froze completely before turning to face Lestrade. “Say that again,” he demanded.   
  
“There wasn’t a case; there was never any suitcase.”   
  
Sherlock jumped to his feet and cupped his hands over John’s cheeks. The shock of the oil-plastic texture surprised him enough that Sherlock could gently push him out of the way as he bolted out of the room. _What was that?!_ John wondered, still reeling from the sudden contact. He noticed Lestrade’s raised eyebrow and abruptly flushed.   
  
Clearing his throat lightly, John pushed his way out of the room and leaned over the railing to see Sherlock shouting about a suitcase. Lestrade came up beside him and called down to Sherlock, “Sherlock, there’s no case!”   
  
Sherlock looked back up at them, already nearly to the bottom of the stairs. “They take the poison themselves; they chew and swallow the pills themselves; there are clear signs! Even you lot couldn’t miss them.”   
  
Beside John, Lestrade grumbled, “Right, yeah, thanks.” Louder: “And?”   
  
The alien had reached the ground floor and was flitting through startled technicians and policemen. “It’s murder. All of them. I don’t know how. They’re not suicides; they’re killings. Got ourselves a serial killer.” He looked around, frantic energy driving him across the hall as he searched each room.   
  
“Sherlock, what are you looking for?” the DI called, almost hanging over the railing to keep track of the energetic alien.   
  
“Her case. Come on, where is her case; did she eat it? Someone was here and took her case. Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait on serial killers until they make a mistake. Good thing you called me in when you did; you’d have never spotted it.”   
  
“We can’t just wait for him to kill another person, Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted at him incredulously.   
  
“We don’t have to; he’s already made a mistake!” Sherlock called back, already heading for the door and out of sight.   
  
“What mistake?”   
  
He burst back into their line of sight. “Pink!” And he was gone.   
  
“Pink,” Lestrade muttered in disgust. “What is pink supposed to mean?” He shook his head and turned back to the slightly stunned officers. “Let’s get on with it,” he called.   
  
John was shuffled off to the side as he tried to keep out of everyone’s way. Lestrade brushed by him without a word, and he found himself completely ignored on the landing. _Well,_ he thought darkly, _so much for being sorry he left me. So much for never letting him go again._ He pushed the rage and hurt away to deal with later and hobbled down the stairs. The suit went back into the hands of a technician who didn’t even nod to acknowledge him, and he finally ended up back outside. There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere, and another wave of anger and pain threatened to overwhelm him. He made his way to Sergeant Sally Donovan, who told him that Sherlock had left and probably wasn’t coming back for him.   
  
“Right.” he managed, turning away. _So that’s how it is, then._ “Right.” He looked back at Donovan, forcing a pleasant expression. “Sorry, where am I?” He’d been too engrossed in Sherlock on the ride over to pay attention to his surroundings.   
  
“Brixton,” she replied.   
  
_Great. Bloody wonderful._ “Do you know where I could get a cab? It’s just that – well. My leg.” He tapped it with his cane.

She lifted the tape to let him pass and directed him to the main road. “Look, you’re not his friend,” she told him as he walked by her. He stopped and turned to face her. “He doesn’t have friends.” The officer looked him over. “So who are you?”   
  
“I’m – I’m nobody,” he replied. _I thought I was his friend, but now I’m not so sure._ “I just came along with him.”   
  
“Okay, here’s a bit of advice: Stay away from that guy.”   
  
“Why?” John asked, curious. _Sherlock did say that she thought he was a sociopath,_ he remembered abruptly.   
  
Sure enough, Donovan assured him that Sherlock “got off” on crimes – the weirder the better – and that as a sociopath he would eventually get bored and start making his own crimes. John scoffed inwardly, remembering Sherlock’s utter disgust when John had explained why he carried the Browning in Afghanistan. Then he reconsidered. _That was a long time ago; he was still bad at expressing himself like a human. What if he wasn’t trying to express disgust? What if, afterwards, he just decided to act like he was a pacifist? What if he’s been lying to me all this time?_   
  
He shook his head to dispel the images. Sherlock might have used his unfamiliarity with human expression for his own advantage on occasion, but John still felt that he knew him well enough to tell that he honestly hated death. Turning away from the crime scene, he started the trek back to the main road. He’d walked further before – the day he’d met Sherlock at Bart’s, he’d already walked five kilometres – but the weight of renewed betrayal seemed to make every step an effort. He’d trusted Sherlock, damn it. He’d trusted the alien to keep his promise and stay with him this time; he’d trusted him to cover his back. But the moment something new had drawn Sherlock’s attention, John had been dropped and forgotten.   
  
A phone rang off to the side, but John was too lost in thought to notice. He’d already signed the year-long contract with Mrs. Hudson, so he wouldn’t be able to move out. Maybe he’d just convince Sherlock to confine himself to a couple of rooms and not bother him; he’d happily settle with just the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. Surely Sherlock would be able to work with the living room and the other bedroom? Another phone was ringing.   
  
It took a few blocks for John to realize that although the tone had been changing, he’d been hearing phones ring ever since leaving the crime scene. As he watched, one phone cut off only to be replaced by a landline in the business next to him. An employee reached out to answer it, but it suddenly silenced itself. A few metres ahead of him, a phone booth rang out with noise.   
  
More than slightly bewildered, John hesitantly entered the phone booth and picked up the phone. “Hello?” he answered, feeling more than a little idiotic. This kind of thing just didn’t happen in real life – he was letting his imagination get away from him again.   
  
“There is a security camera on the building on your left,” a smooth voice said. “Do you see it?”   
  
John licked his lips, feeling the skin on the back of his neck prickle. “Who’s this?” he asked, shifting his weight. “Who’s speaking?”   
  
“Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?”   
  
All of John’s nerves shot into red alert at the name, and he tensed. _Fuck,_ he thought. _How does – Who – What the fuck?!_ He looked up at the building and stared at the camera. The camera stared back at him. “Yeah, I see,” he said, voice steady.   
  
“Watch.” The camera swiveled on its perch until it was facing away. _Christ._ What had he gotten himself into?   
  
The voice repeated the action on two other cameras. “How are you doing this?” John asked.   
  
“Get into the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.” As the voice spoke, a black car pulled up to the curb, and the driver got out to open the rear door. There was a click as the call disconnected, and John replaced the phone with pursed lips. _No choice but to do it,_ he decided, feeling the calm of the battlefield wash over him.

There was a woman waiting for him in the back seat. She barely glanced up to acknowledge him, focus firmly planted on the Blackberry in her hands. John sat uncomfortably in the seat for several kilometres before finally breaking the silence. “Hello,” he tried, looking over at her.   
  
She looked up for half a second and smiled prettily. “Hi,” she greeted before returning to the phone.   
  
“What’s your name, then?”   
  
“Ah, Anthea,” she said after a moment. The pause tipped him off.   
  
“Is that your real name?”   
  
“No,” she admitted.   
  
There was silence for a few moments before John introduced himself.   
  
“Yes, I know.”   
  
_Well, that just about covers the small talk,_ he decided. “Any point in asking where I’m going?” he asked.   
  
“None at all, John,” she replied.   
  
_Right. Abducted, then, though why they’d let me keep track of the streets we pass I don’t know._ “Okay,” he said aloud, and let silence reign for the remainder of the trip.   
  
Eventually, the car pulled into an old warehouse. _Going for the clichés, I see._ A man stood posed several metres in front of the vehicle; the headlights lit his figure as John got out and walked toward him. Something about him seemed strangely familiar, but John couldn’t place it. Perhaps he was a terrorist he’d seen on the news?   
  
“Have a seat, John,” the man said, pointing to a single chair with his umbrella.   
  
John forced away the mild ache in his knee and walked past the chair to stand directly in front of the stranger. “You know, I’ve got a phone,” he informed the man as he hobbled forward. “This is very clever and all that, but you could just phone me. On my phone.” Up close, the sense of recognition doubled. John squinted, trying to bring up the memory. “Have we met?”   
  
The man’s expression didn’t change from the polite geniality it had held when John first got out of the car. “I’m afraid we’ve never had the pleasure,” he replied. “As for simply calling you – when one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet.” He waved the umbrella to emphasize the spacious warehouse. “Hence this place.” The man looked back at John and smiled. John knew immediately that it was entirely false. “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.” The tone was sharp – an order – but the man’s expression was still friendly. A quick once-over showed John that the man’s body was almost perfectly still. The disconcerting contradiction between all three sparked some sort of recognition in John’s brain, and he chased it desperately.   
  
Suddenly, everything clicked into place, and he looked up at the man’s face in surprise. “You’re the brother,” he blurted.   
  
The man raised an eyebrow at him, and John suddenly felt uncertain of himself. “The brother?” the man repeated politely. His face was a study in muted confusion, unlike the blank expression Sherlock would adopt when John surprised him. “What leads you to that conclusion?”   
  
Well, there was one way to check that was certain to work. John held up his hand before the other man’s face – it was the only place he could see bare skin. “Sherlock showed me a picture of you,” he lied, just in case he was wrong and he was really dealing with an unaware human. “If you’ll pardon my intrusion,” he apologized as he reached forward to touch the man’s face.   
  
The man swung away from the encroaching hand and placed a safer buffer distance between them. John dropped his hand and smiled lightly. “You are his brother, aren’t you?”   
  
“I remain curious as to how you reached that conclusion, as I am almost certain that Sherlock has no photographs with my image. I doubt he would have shown them to you, a complete stranger.” The man paced closer, examining John. “Then again, you were acquainted yesterday afternoon – not even a full twenty-four hours ago – and you’ve since gone to lunch, moved into a flat – a year-long lease: Rather optimistic, don’t you think? – and gone to a crime scene together.” The umbrella intruded on John’s personal space as the man used it to poke him gently in the chest. “So tell me, Dr. John Watson, who are you?”   
  
Chin raised, John replied, “I’m a friend of Sherrinford’s.”

That stopped the man. “Ah,” he said, umbrella falling back to his side. “You’re _that_ John. Of course; why didn’t I make the connection sooner? Stupid of me.” He pulled off a glove and shook John’s hand; John felt the tell-tale texture of oil and plastic beneath his fingers.   
  
Deciding that his knee really was bothering him a bit, John shook his head and took a seat in the chair. If Sherlock hadn’t lied, then his brother was here on a peaceful mission and probably wouldn’t harm John. If Sherlock _had_ lied, then his brother was almost certainly as strong as the other alien and John wouldn’t be able to defend himself if he decided to kill him. Either way, it didn’t matter if John took a more vulnerable position. “So,” he prompted the alien. “I’ve forgotten your name. My-something-or-other.”   
  
“Mycroft is the name I’m going by, yes,” the alien replied. “Mycroft Holmes. It was a gift from some lovely villagers living in the more rural parts of Great Britain.” He turned his gaze on John once more, obviously searching him. “I must admit that I’ve wanted to meet you for a while; you had a rather profound influence on my brother. Your sudden friendship here makes much more sense, knowing your past.”   
  
John grimaced. “Yeah, well. I don’t know if friendship is exactly what I would call it. We’ve both changed since I saw him last.” He reconsidered. “Well, maybe not; maybe it’s only me. Either way.” He shook his head, dismissing the train of thought. “Sorry. So basically you kidnapped me to see why I’d suddenly befriended your brother? Bit of a social faux pas, there.”   
  
“Really?” Mycroft asked, eyebrow lifted. “I’d been under the impression that older brothers were expected to be overprotective of their younger siblings, and that they should take every chance to intimidate their younger siblings’ suitors.”   
  
_There are so many things wrong with this._ “Okay, first off, I’m not Sherlock’s suitor. I’m his friend; I don’t want to date him. Secondly, overprotective intimidation in this case isn’t supposed to involve kidnapping; it’s more along the lines of posturing threateningly and promising bodily harm if the suitor hurts him. And you’re not really supposed to deliver on it if it does happen,” he added. John ran a hand through his hair. “Considering the fact that I’m probably not going to be spending a whole lot of time around Sherlock in the future, both are wasted on me.”   
  
“You signed a year-long lease together, and you’ve not been more than a few metres away from him since you were introduced yesterday – trust me; I’ve been waiting for a moment to confront you – but you’re not going to spend time with him?” Mycroft tilted his head, eyebrow quirked at the exact angle to best convey confusion. “Has something happened?”   
  
Huffing, John looked to the side. “You could say that,” he agreed. “Sherlock just isn’t as interested in being my friend as I thought.” God, saying that _hurt._ He still didn’t want to admit it – didn’t want to make it real – but it was so obviously the truth. All that talk the night before, and Sherlock had still just disappeared.   
  
The sensation of oil-plastic skin against his chin startled him, and Mycroft pulled his face up to look him in the eye. “John, I don’t know what exactly happened, but Sherlock’s rarely gone more than a few days at a time without referencing you in some way. You are the first human he’s ever known, and he wouldn’t give you up so quickly after finding you again. Believe me in this: There must have been a misunderstanding somewhere. You’re hurt; I can see that. But if you and Sherlock don’t fix whatever happened, you’ll both have broken hearts.”   
  
John’s phone chirped in his pocket, and he fished it out, grateful for the excuse to look away from Mycroft. There was a text, and he opened it to give himself a few more seconds to put himself back together.   
  
_Back at 221B. Where are you?  
-SH_   
  
With a glance up at Mycroft for permission, John typed out a reply and sent it.   
  
_Talking to your brother._   
  
A few seconds later, Mycroft’s phone rang, and he pulled it out with an amused expression. “Hello, Sherlock,” he answered.

Mycroft had backed out of John’s space, so he couldn’t make out the reply. As the alien took a few more steps away, John let his head fall back against the chair and closed his eyes.   
  
“Calm yourself; he’s fine. He texted you, didn’t he? … No, not at all. … It would be my pleasure. … One moment. John?” John looked up to see Mycroft holding the phone out to him. “He’d like to speak with you, if you don’t mind. For some reason, he seems to think that I’ve incapacitated you in some way.”   
  
Chuckling slightly at that, John took the phone. “Hello?”   
  
“John! Are you alright? Has he given you anything? Don’t take anything he offers you, and for the love of God don’t agree to anything.” Sherlock sounded positively frantic.   
  
“Sherlock,” John interjected. Sherlock went silent on the other end of the line. “I’m fine. He kidnapped me, yes, but once I realized who he was it was fine.”   
  
“He kidnapped you? _Dammit,_ Mycroft. Let me talk to him; I’ll get him to bring you home.”   
  
John sighed and handed the phone off. Mycroft watched his expression as he finished the conversation – “Of course, Sherlock. He’ll be there shortly.” – and frowned at what he saw. “John,” he said, flipping the phone closed and returning it to his pocket. “I worry about my brother. Constantly.”   
  
_After today, I see why._ “Okay. And?”   
  
“What with the argument he and I are having right now, if you leave Sherlock he will be alone. It is entirely your decision, of course, but please keep that in mind.”   
  
_I think we’ve determined that I can’t be friends with Sherlock by this point,_ John thought cynically, _but maybe we can fix whatever’s gone wrong between you two._ “You can come with me to Baker Street, right?” he asked suddenly.   
  
Mycroft blinked. “I wasn’t planning to; Sherlock would without a doubt be extremely displeased to see me in your company.”   
  
“It’s my flat, too; I can invite you over if I want,” John replied, levering himself out of the chair. “And I think the three of us have some things to discuss. Will you come?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
They piled into the car, Anthea giving Mycroft a surprised look but saying nothing. “221B Baker Street,” Mycroft told the driver. The car backed out of the warehouse and started retracing its route, but the interior was silent and tense.   
  
John flicked his eyes from Mycroft to Anthea, silently asking if she knew what Mycroft was. The tiny shake of his head could have been Mycroft telling him that she was unaware, or it could have been him trying to explain that he didn’t understand what John was asking. Either way, John decided to keep his mouth shut until they were in the relatively safer environment of the flat.

* * *

Sherlock was waiting at the curb when they pulled up. He jumped towards the car and yanked the back door open before it had even stopped. “Mycroft,” he snarled, dragging John out of the back seat and behind him defensively. John blinked at the treatment and stared at him incredulously.   
  
“Sherlock, don’t make a scene,” Mycroft replied as he elegantly unfolded himself from the vehicle. “Wait here, please,” he told Anthea before shutting the door. He turned back to John and Sherlock and motioned to the front door. “After you, Dr. Watson.”   
  
John pulled the door open and shoved Sherlock up the stairs, ignoring his shocked protests. Mycroft followed behind John with his umbrella twirling sedately. Although he scowled the whole way, Sherlock grudgingly opened the door and led the entourage into the living room. “Why are you here, Mycroft?” he spat.   
  
“He’s here because I asked him to be, Sherlock,” John interrupted. If he let them get into a tiff, he’d never manage to get a word in edgewise. The statement stopped Sherlock cold, and he stared at John with an expression that slid into betrayal. Still, his response was directed to Mycroft.   
  
“What did you do to him?” he demanded, stalking forward. Mycroft merely tilted his head and stripped off a glove as he raised his hand for Sherlock to take.

Before they could touch, John stepped between them and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder. “He didn’t do anything to me, Sherlock; you did. Stop accusing Mycroft of everything. He’ll be important in a minute. Right now, you need to listen to me, okay?”   
  
“John.” Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes. “You’re angry.”   
  
_Observant._ “Yes, I am. You left me at the crime scene this morning.” _Bastard – after telling me last night that you wouldn’t leave me again – No. Calm. Keep it together._ “You have the perfect memory, Sherlock; what did you tell me last night?” _Make him piece it together; it’ll make sense to him if he can get there himself, and I won’t have to say it._   
  
Sherlock blinked, obviously scanning through the evening to figure out which part John was talking about. His eyes slid past John’s to glance at Mycroft, as if wondering whether he really had to say it in front of his brother, but he looked back at John and replied, “I promised to not hurt you again.”   
  
“And? What about leaving me?” John prompted. Sherlock should be able to put it together from that.   
  
“I apologized, but said that I don’t regret my choices. John, what –?” The alien sounded completely bewildered.   
  
“No,” he cut him off. “Think about it.” _Please don’t make me spell it out; I can’t do it._ “Last night you said that you wouldn’t leave me again, but what did you do today?”   
  
The alien’s eyes remained glued to his as he puzzled it out. Finally, just as John was beginning to despair, Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, I’m an idiot.” He looked at John, lips slightly parted in shock. “John. I didn’t really abandon you there; I told you to come back to Baker Street and wait for me.”   
  
“Really,” John said flatly. “That’s funny, because I didn’t hear anything of the sort. And believe me, I was listening.”   
  
“No, no you wouldn’t have,” Sherlock muttered. He reached a hand up to John’s face, but John ducked away and stepped back. Sherlock’s face went blank in shock before it twisted with hurt. “John,” he began, but John cut him off.   
  
“No, that’s about all that needs to be said, don’t you think?” He struggled to keep his voice light. “I trusted you to stay with me, to watch my back, and at the first distraction you ran off. At least you made it pretty clear right away where I stand.” He backed towards the stairs to his bedroom, heart breaking a little more at Sherlock’s stricken expression. He avoided looking at Mycroft. “I’m not doing that again” – _I won’t survive you crushing my hope again_ – “but we’ve already signed to stay here for a full year. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone as much as possible until the lease runs out; I’ll leave you with the living room and downstairs bedroom if you’ll leave me the other bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.” His voice was starting to shake, so he turned to escape up the stairs.   
  
“John,” Sherlock tried again. “Wait. Let me explain.”   
  
John shook his head and left him behind. “No more, Sherlock. I’m sorry it couldn’t work out. I really am.” He slammed the bedroom door behind him and locked it. It wouldn’t keep the aliens out if they really wanted in, but he prayed that they would take the hint and leave him alone. John threw himself back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. _That’s that, then,_ he thought. _Paradise for less than a day, and it’s over now._ His shoulders shook, but no tears came. _Guess I was never meant for happiness._   
  
The Sig was in his bedside drawer. He imagined rolling onto his side and reaching over his body and across the bed. His gun would glint darkly at him in greeting as he pulled the drawer open, and it would feel so light compared to the weight on his chest when he picked it up. Everything would build up in his chest and throat, choking him as he lifted the gun to his temple. It would build and build – _The night is darkest before the dawn._ – until the pressure became too much and he pulled the trigger.

Sherlock would be in the room before the echoes of the report had dissipated; seeing John’s bloody body would – what? Shock him and break him? No, he’d already made it clear that John wasn’t so important to him. Would he just blink at his corpse before shrugging and starting the search for a new flatmate? John didn’t think Sherlock would be quite as unaffected as that. He hoped not, at least.   
  
A knock on the door startled him out of his morbid thoughts. “Go away,” John mumbled.   
  
“It’s Mycroft,” the smooth voice said. “Sherlock is downstairs; I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”   
  
John exhaled noisily and opened his eyes. “I was really intending for you to comfort Sherlock after our argument, you know,” he informed Mycroft. “You’ve either done a spectacular job or a really crappy one if you’re already done with him.”   
  
“Sherlock got exactly what he needed from me,” Mycroft replied. “And now I’d like to see how you’re doing.”   
  
_What the Hell,_ John thought. _It can’t hurt. Probably._ “Sure, come on in. Door’s locked, but you can slide underneath if you want.”   
  
A few seconds later, Mycroft appeared in his field of vision and smiled down at him. His brow was creased, however, and John just had to complement him. “You’re pretty good at the human expressions. That looks just like worried concern. Well done.”   
  
“Well, working in politics like I do, one has to manage a certain verisimilitude even when flat-out lying. I’m not, by the way.”   
  
“Not what?”   
  
“Lying.” Mycroft moved his hand to John’s head and ran his fingers through his hair when John didn’t flinch away. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant; Mycroft’s skin was just a little bit stickier than human skin, and it tugged gently at John’s hair as it passed through. “There is an aspect of my species’ physiology about which I believe you are – surprisingly – unaware.”   
  
John turned his head away. _So that’s how it’s going to be – convince the stupid human to go back to little brother. Good luck._ Mycroft continued running his fingers through John’s hair as he spoke.   
  
“Humans communicate primarily through verbal speech, as you are well aware. In our natural state, however, we have neither vocal nor auditory organs. As such, we do not have a spoken language. We don’t have anything even remotely approaching a language as you would define it.”   
  
Intrigued despite himself, John twisted back to face the alien. “So how do you communicate?” he asked, knowing that he was playing right into Mycroft’s script.   
  
Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. “It’s difficult to explain in English; there aren’t many words that can accurately describe the concepts. The first thing to know is that touch is integral, and that we will quite literally go insane without physical contact.” John abruptly became hyperaware of the alien’s hand brushing against his scalp. “There is an aspect of mild contact-based telepathy – I can show Sherlock my memories, and I can show him something I imagined – and a strong aspect of empathy. When I touch Sherlock, I can tell exactly what he’s feeling at the moment. He can choose to color his thoughts with some emotion when he ‘speaks’ to me – memories of you, for example, have always felt bittersweet – but we can also tell which emotions are projected and which are honest at that point in time.”   
  
“So you communicate in images and emotions through touch,” John summarized. “No wonder Sherrinford had a relatively hard time with English – he had nothing to base it off of.” The thought brought him back to the problem at hand, and the awed smile fell from his face. “So why are you telling me this?”

“After the events of this morning – Sherlock showed me how you accepted him as a completely different life form – my brother began thinking of you as family. In Afghanistan, you’d still been an alien to him. Friendly, but an alien nonetheless. If you remember, he spent most of his time in human form when he wasn’t disguised as your uniform; he did this to avoid making you uncomfortable and to aid in communication. This morning, however, you essentially told him that it was acceptable to act naturally.  
  
“Until this morning, Sherlock could only ever act completely naturally when he was alone with me. Your actions associated us in his mind – he feels safe when he thinks of either of us. This leads me to my point: When we are in public together, Sherlock and I will usually communicate with brushes of skin rather than verbalization. Today at the crime scene, Sherlock touched your face with his bare skin.”  
  
“He was trying to talk to me,” John realized, eyes wide. _Oh, Hell._  
  
Mycroft nodded. “He relayed the message to me a few minutes ago while we were downstairs. In English terms, it was essentially this: ‘Go back to Baker Street; I’m going to go jumping across rooftops, and I don’t want you getting hurt. This is the safest and fastest route to the main street, where you can get a cab. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ There was a huge amount of comfort, worry, and protectiveness thrown in, as well. I wish I could show you; it loses a lot in translation.”  
  
The room was silent for a few minutes as John absorbed that. His throat felt tight when he finally asked, “I screwed up, didn’t I?”  
  
Mycroft rubbed a small circle over John’s crown. “No, Sherlock did. He made a mistake, and you weren’t even aware that our language was contact-based. In no way is this your fault. But based on that sentence, dare I hope that you’ve forgiven him?”  
  
John let out a shuddering breath and nodded. “Yeah.” He shot a sudden glare at Mycroft. “You’d better not be lying to me just to make me go back to Sherlock.”  
  
“I would do no such thing, John,” the alien assured him. “Politician though I may be, you’re family. You’ll never have anything from me but honesty.”  
  
The insanity of his situation suddenly hit him, and he started giggling. “I was considering suicide a day ago because I was so lonely.” He tried to ignore the way Mycroft’s hand tightened convulsively in his hair. “Now I find that I’ve been adopted by two aliens. Can my life get any weirder?”  
  
“Of course. You could be one of two people who travelled across a few galaxies to bring a message of peace to a war-torn planet and ended up adopting a human.” They smiled at each other, letting the weight of the revelations recede a bit.  
  
John sat up on his elbows and let his gaze drift to the door. His smile fell. “I need to go talk to him,” he said. He looked back up at Mycroft. “Do you want to stay?”  
  
Mycroft shook his head. “No, I have a lot of work to get back to. I appreciate the offer though.”  
  
John thought of Mycroft trying day after day to explain himself to politicians who didn’t want to change a system that brought in revenue. “It’s always open,” he replied.  
  
The brief flash of blankness that crossed Mycroft’s face was painful to see. Of all the things he’d said to him, it was the offer of an open door that surprised him enough to lose his composure? “I’ll take you up on it someday,” Mycroft promised. “Now, I really must be going.” He stood up and crossed to the door. “Try not to let Sherlock overwhelm you in the future – remember that you can grab him and ask him to explain if you need to.”  
  
Before going to the door, though, John pulled the drawer of his bedside table open and took out his gun. Mycroft was silent behind him, but he could practically feel the heavy stare on his back. John weighed the weapon in his hands for several seconds before crossing the room and wedging it behind a chest-of-drawers. He examined it for several moments, checking to see that it wasn’t easily visible and that it would require sufficient force to remove, before nodding and heading back towards the door.

The door opened on a pile of Mycroft’s clothes, and John shook his head as he hopped over them to reach the stairs. Of course, to pass under the door Mycroft had stripped off the heavy cloth; it was absurdly funny to watch him pull on a suit identical to the one he appeared to already be wearing. John left him redressing at the door to his room and hesitantly walked down the stairs.   
  
He spotted Sherlock immediately. The alien had taken human form and was lying on the couch with his palms together on his chest. Sherlock was perfectly still, though, and he didn’t move at all as John approached. The closer he got, the easier it was to see that Sherlock’s features had blurred together, almost as if John was looking at him from a great distance.   
  
“I’m sorry I freaked out on you earlier,” John said. He ran a hand over Sherlock’s hair like Mycroft had done to him earlier.   
  
Sherlock’s hair latched onto his hand and held it fast; John suspected that even if he’d tried to pull it back, it wouldn’t have moved. “You’re staying, then?” Sherlock mumbled, eyes still closed. His features slowly became more defined as he calmed.   
  
“Yeah.” He thought back to the destructive path his mind had traveled before Mycroft’s interruption. “But I honestly don’t think I’d survive you leaving me again.” He closed his eyes and banished the seductive thought of his Sig.   
  
When he looked down again, Sherlock had opened his eyes and was staring at him. Thankfully he said nothing, only reached up with one arm to pull John down against him. John moved to kneel by the couch, but Sherlock bodily picked him up and deposited him on the cushions beside him. “I’m never letting you go again,” Sherlock promised, burrowing his head under John’s chin. His limbs flattened and spread to completely cocoon John. “You’re my brother.”   
  
An hour after Mycroft dipped his head to John on his way out and they heard the car pull away from the curb outside, they still hadn’t moved.

* * *

“So what _did_ you go do when you left?”   
  
John had (mostly) disentangled himself from Sherlock and was puttering around the kitchen searching for tea. He pursed his lips when he couldn’t find any and made a mental note to go shopping. He closed the last cupboard’s door with his right hand and stared at the appendage hanging off his wrist.   
  
The alien had pointedly extended his arm to wrap a devolved hand around John’s wrist like a leashed bracelet when he’d finally stood up. John tried to bring himself to feel uneasy or even annoyed, but the emotions just wouldn’t come. He suspected he was too busy being glad that Sherlock really wanted to be around him to feel weird about it. The longing for personal space would come later.   
  
“I found the suitcase,” Sherlock said.   
  
John froze at the sentence and slowly turned to stare at the man sitting on the couch. A pastel pink suitcase had appeared while his back was turned and was lying innocently on the coffee table. “The suitcase,” he repeated. “The dead woman’s suitcase?”   
  
His response was an eye-roll. “Of course. The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens; he could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen carrying this case without drawing attention to himself, particularly a man – which is statistically more likely. So obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it – wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back-street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. It was fairly easy, if a bit unsanitary. I found it in a skip not three blocks from the crime scene.”   
  
“You got all that because the woman was wearing pink,” John commented. He shook his head. “You’re incredible.”   
  
Sherlock grinned at him and pushed himself up from his seat. “Now, we move onto the next part of the investigation,” he announced. “Get your phone; I need you to send a text.”   
  
Giving the tea up as a lost cause, John dug his phone out of his pocket and walked back into the living room. “Why can’t you send it?” he asked. “Your phone is right there on the desk.”

“Don’t want to use my phone; always a chance the number will be recognized from the website. Now – ”  
  
“Website?” John asked, sitting on the couch Sherlock had vacated. “What website?”  
  
“My website: _The Science of Deduction._ It’s how I get my private cases, and my contact information is accordingly posted on the front page. Now, the text.” He rattled off a phone number, then repeated it slower at John’s request. “Have you got it? Good; now send this text exactly: ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-Two Northumberland Street. Please come.’ Send it when you’ve finished.”  
  
A few seconds later, John flipped his phone closed. “I’ve sent it. What exactly have I sent?”  
  
While John had been distracted with the text, Sherlock had flipped the case open. He was staring at it moodily from the armchair when John looked up. “You sent a text to Jennifer Wilson’s phone. You’ll notice that it’s not here with the rest of her belongings.”  
  
John stared at the case, barely believing that it was actually in the room with them. “So, what? She left it at home?”  
  
Sherlock shot down his idea, reminding him that the woman was a serial adulterer and that she wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave her phone out where her husband could find it.  
  
“Why did I just send that text?” John asked.  
  
“No, the question is: Where is her phone now?”  
  
“She could have lost it.”  
  
“Yes, or?”  
  
“Or the murderer has it.” John looked at the arm of the couch, where he had placed his mobile. “You think the murderer has the phone.” The grip on his wrist tightened, but John felt anything but reassured. “Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?”  
  
At his side, the phone suddenly started ringing. John picked it up and looked at the caller ID: _‘(withheld) calling,’_ it read.  
  
“A few hours after his last victim, he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found her phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer,” Sherlock said, pausing as the phone rang itself out, “would panic.” He flipped the suit closed and bolted for the door, grip on John’s wrist pulling him along.  
  
“Hang on,” John managed, digging his heels in as Sherlock grabbed his coat and swirled it on. “Have you talked to the police?”  
  
“Four people are dead; there isn’t time to talk to the police.” With that, the alien rushed out the door, practically dragging John behind him.  
  
“What – _Sherlock!”_

* * *

“So, where are we going?” John asked several minutes later.   
  
“Northumberland Street,” Sherlock replied. “It’s only a five-minute walk from here.”   
  
_22 Northumberland St.,_ John remembered. “You think he’s stupid enough to go there?”   
  
“He’s curious. He just received a text from a ghost – of course he’d want to see what would happen. If he doesn’t show up, he’ll wonder for the rest of his life what would have happened if he had. Humans are very curious creatures, I’ve noticed; I haven’t decided yet whether it’s a virtue or a failing.”   
  
“Let me know when you do.”   
  
The alien spun so that he was walking backwards down the sidewalk. “This is his hunting ground,” he muttered to himself, “right here in the heart of the city.” He turned around again. “Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. All of his victims disappeared from busy streets – crowded places – but nobody saw them go. Think!” he exclaimed, startling John. “Who do you trust, even though you don’t know them; who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”   
  
“I don’t know. Who?”   
  
Sherlock threw his hands up. “Haven’t the faintest. Hungry?”   
  
“Oh, no,” John denied as he recognized the area. “I’m not going back in there. Last time I was in there I made a horrible scene. Besides, Angelo makes me nervous.”   
  
“Relax; he’s harmless. Just pretend that you really are my date, and he’ll forgive you anything. The man has been trying to set me up with someone for the last three months. You’ll be doing us both a favor.”   
  
“But I’m not your date!” he cried. “Hell, a couple of hours ago you were calling me your brother. Please tell me you see how wrong that is.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Oh, of course. Incest. You are aware that we aren’t actually related, right?”   
  
“That’s not the point, Sherlock.”   
  
“English is very imprecise; the meaning I was going for was somewhat closer to brothers-in-arms than brothers-in-blood. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter; we both know that you’re not my date. The point is that Angelo wouldn’t, and we’d avoid him begging you for my sake to take me back despite my many eccentricities. You can have a candle and free food, or you can have an impassioned plea and cold glares when you inevitably refuse. Your choice.”   
  
John looked up at the cheery sign over the restaurant’s door queasily. “Could I just choose to not go in at all? I’m really not feeling very hungry anymore.”   
  
The nudge against his back took him by surprise, and Sherlock used his distraction to usher him through the door. “No, sorry; we need to be able to watch the shop and this is the best place to do it from.” He sat them down at the same window table, and John unhappily shed his jacket and cane.   
  
“Ah, Sherlock! You’ve returned with your date! I was so worried, when you both rushed out so quickly earlier.” John winced as the boisterous owner made his way to their table. “But a little bug-in-the-rug never hurt anybody, eh?” he asked, winking at John meaningfully. John forced a smile in return, praying that the man would just give them the menus and leave. “Are you looking for a late lunch or an early dinner?”   
  
“Whichever you’d like John; I’m not very hungry,” Sherlock said graciously. If it weren’t for the smirk, he might have passed as considerate.   
  
“A late lunch,” John decided. Angelo passed them their menus and left with a promise to return with a candle. “Wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you,” John growled when the man had passed from earshot.   
  
Sherlock’s face immediately straightened and he returned to looking out the window. “We’re facing directly across from Twenty-Two Northumberland Street,” Sherlock narrated. “Keep an eye down the sides of this street for our murderer.”   
  
“He’s not just going to ring the doorbell, is he?” John asked. “He’d have to be mad.”   
  
“He has killed four people, John.”   
  
At that point, Angelo returned with the candle. “Just give me a wave when you’re ready to order; can I get you anything to drink?”   
  
A semi-frantic glance at Sherlock gave him no hints, so John just smiled weakly and ordered a water. Angelo left again, and John stared at Sherlock.   
  
“Feel free to order something to eat,” the alien prompted. “We might be here for quite a while.”   
  
John perused the menu for several minutes, but before he managed to decide between the lasagna and the spaghetti, Sherlock drew his attention across the street. “Taxi,” he said, “stopped. Nobody getting in; nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?”   
  
“That’s it?” John asked, leaning over the back of his seat. Sherlock abruptly turned his head away. “What?”   
  
“We can’t both be staring at it,” Sherlock told him. “You can only see out of the front of your face – horrible design, really – so I’ll watch from the side of my head.”   
  
“Right.” Somewhat bemused, John watched as Sherlock stood up and snatched his coat on the way to the door. Realizing that the alien was walking away, he grabbed his jacket and rushed after him. _At least we’re leaving,_ he decided. _May we never return._   
  
They shrugged into their respective outerwear just outside the restaurant, John watching the cab and Sherlock pretending to watch John. The man in the back of the cab looked over his shoulder at the two of them before leaning forward and motioning to the cabby. The cabby started to pull away from the curb.   
  
Sherlock, of course, paid no attention to the oncoming traffic as he jumped into the streets to chase the cab, and he narrowly avoided being completely flattened. John cursed as he saw Sherlock’s side crumple slightly upon impact before it reformed and he ran off. “Sorry!” he shouted to the horrified driver, and he raced after his friend.   
  
The cab was already at the end of the block and accelerating, however, so John was able to slide to a stop beside a stationary Sherlock. “I’ve got the cab number,” he gasped, heart racing.

“Good for you,” Sherlock replied, and he bolted down a side alley. A sudden grip on John’s wrist towed him along. “Don’t worry; I’m taking you with me this time,” he heard from ahead of him.  
  
“Sorry,” John gasped out as they plowed past a man at the alley’s edge. Sherlock plunged through a door into one of the buildings, and they rushed up a flight of stairs to the building’s rooftop. John slammed into Sherlock when the alien suddenly stopped and spun. “What –?”  
  
“You’re not fast enough like this,” the alien said, wrapping his arms around John. The limbs flattened and spread so that he was held securely in Sherlock’s grasp. “Just don’t flail around.” With no further warning than that, Sherlock raced to the edge of the roof and shot out over empty space.  
  
There wasn’t enough time to scream before an appendage shot out of the alien’s body and latched onto the building in front of them. Sherlock flipped them over the lip of the rooftop and launched them completely across it and over to the next. _I’m rooming with Spiderman,_ John thought hysterically as he watched the ground shoot away below them. _Jesus Christ._  
  
Sherlock landed them in an abandoned alleyway and removed everything except for a hand on John’s upper arm to keep him steady. “Come on!” he urged, already pulling John to the mouth of the alley. “We’re going to miss him if you don’t hurry!”  
  
John forced his feet beneath him and sped down the alleyway. They burst out in front of the cab they’d been chasing, and Sherlock put himself between John and the vehicle as a shock absorber. They bounced back a few feet before recovering. “Police!” Sherlock said. “Open up.” The alien dragged John to the back door of the idling cab. He ripped the door open and examined the startled man before growling in disgust. “No,” he said; “teeth, tan line: Californian?” He glanced at the man’s feet. “LAX, Santa Monica. Just arrived.”  
  
“How could you possibly know that?” John asked.  
  
“The luggage,” Sherlock said, motioning towards the man’s feet. John craned his neck to see around Sherlock and saw the LAX tag on the suitcase. “Probably your first trip to London, right?” he asked the bewildered man in the cab.  
  
The man nodded. “Sorry; are you guys the police?”  
  
Sherlock flashed some sort of ID and nodded. “Yeah; everything alright?” _Wait a second. Was that Lestrade’s name?_  
  
“Yeah,” the man confirmed, grinning nervously.  
  
“Welcome to London,” Sherlock said as he kicked off from the door and walked away.  
  
“Any problems, just let us know,” John added before closing the door and following. “Basically just a cab that happened to slow down,” he said when he caught up to Sherlock.  
  
“Basically,” the alien agreed.  
  
“Not the murderer.”  
  
“Not the murderer, no.”  
  
“Wrong country; good alibi.”  
  
“As they go,” Sherlock agreed.  
  
Remembering the ID Sherlock had flashed, he asked, “Did you steal Lestrade’s ID card?”  
  
Sherlock blinked at him before rolling his eyes. “John. Do you remember my first ID card?”  
  
“Yes, you named yourself Sherrinford Watson – Oh.”  
  
“Yes, quite.” The alien raised his hand and transformed it into Lestrade’s card. “It’s easy in a pinch; I already know all the information, and if someone actually bothers to check the information it’s in the system.”  
  
“That’s impersonation,” John pointed out.  
  
“Do I care?”  
  
“I thought you were all for peace and against crime – thus working for the police, you know?”  
  
“John, I’m not working for the police. Most of the time I’m not even working _with_ the police. I’m trying to catch murderers. As far as I’m concerned, impersonation is a great pastime and should be picked up as a party game.”  
  
They glanced back at the cab, where the man from California was talking to a real police officer and gesturing in their direction. “We should leave,” John suggested.  
  
“Quite.” And they were off.

* * *

They traveled by streets this time around, and John carried himself by his own power. When they tumbled back into 221B, John collapsed against the wall in the front hallway and gasped for breath. Sherlock leaned against the wall next to him and grinned down at him.

“That was the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” John finally wheezed.  
  
“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock agreed.  
  
The laughter just seemed to burst out of them. “It wasn’t just me, then,” he denied. “What if the murderer showed up after we left?”  
  
“Angelo will keep an eye on it. It was a long shot, anyway.”  
  
“So what were we doing out there in the first place?”  
  
“Oh, just passing the time,” Sherlock replied, face composed again. “And proving a point.” The grin on his face was anything but comforting.  
  
“What point?” was John’s wary reply.  
  
A knock sounded on the front door. Sherlock motioned for John to answer it. More than a little confused and nervous, John turned and opened the door.  
  
Angelo was standing on the front step. “Sherlock texted me,” he explained. He held up John’s cane. “He said you forgot this!”  
  
John took the cane from him, glancing down at his right leg in surprise. He hadn’t noticed any pain or discomfort after leaving Angelo’s; he hadn’t even realized that he was lacking the near-constant rubber grip in his hand. A glance back through the hallway showed Sherlock grinning happily at him, and a smile spread over his own face in response. “Thank you,” he told Angelo, shock beginning to fade. “Thank you.” He went back inside.  
  
As he rejoined Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson paced out of her room. “Oh, Sherlock, what’ve you done?” she moaned, obviously distraught.  
  
Looking distinctly less happy, Sherlock prompted, “Mrs. Hudson?”  
  
“Upstairs.”  
  
Sherlock glanced at John before hurrying up the stairs, John practically walking on his heels. They burst into a center of activity, policemen and women moving through the flat in a flurry of motion. “What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded, going straight to Lestrade, who was sitting in one of their armchairs with his ankle crossed over his knee.  
  
“Well I knew you’d find the case; I’m not stupid,” he said.  
  
“You can’t just break into my flat,” Sherlock snarled. John was inclined to agree; he glanced around and wracked his memory for anything that could lead the police back to the fact that Sherlock wasn’t human. He didn’t think that there was anything obvious lying around, but there was the fact that there was no food in the kitchen.  
  
“You can’t withhold evidence!” Lestrade retorted. “And I didn’t _break_ into your flat.”  
  
“Well what do you call this, then?” the alien demanded, arms thrown wide.  
  
Lestrade shrugged. “It’s a drugs bust.”  
  
 _Wait, what?_ “Seriously?” John asked from behind Sherlock, surprised out of his mild panic. “This guy: A junkie – Have you met him?” _First there’s the fact that it would have no effect on him whatsoever…._  
  
Sherlock had circled around to face him. “John,” he said warningly.  
  
Ignoring the reprimand, he continued, “I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn’t find anything you could call ‘recreation’.”  
  
“John, you’ll probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock said sharply.  
  
Surprised and more than a little disconcerted, John turned his head to face Sherlock, who was all but glaring at him. “Yeah, but come on.”  
  
“You do recall that I mentioned making a study of the effects certain substances have on me?” Sherlock hissed at him.  
  
John’s eyes widened in realization before he narrowed them to glare back. “We’re going to talk about this later,” he warned. For good measure, he clenched his muscles until he managed a short full-body tremor. _I’ll say it in your body language, too._  
  
The alien backed away immediately and turned to face Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog,” he informed him.  
  
“No,” the DI agreed; “Anderson’s my sniffer dog.” He nodded towards the kitchen, where Anderson gave them a short wave.  
  
“Wh – Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?” Sherlock demanded.  
  
“Oh, I volunteered,” Anderson informed him. “Are these _human_ eyes?” he asked, holding up a plastic bag in his other hand.  
  
“Put those back!”  
  
“They were in the microwave.”  
  
“It’s an experiment!” He was getting more and more frantic; John could see his skin start to vibrate, and he placed a hand against his neck soothingly.

“They’re not, strictly speaking, _on_ the drugs squad, but they’re very keen,” Lestrade said. John felt a violent ripple run underneath his hand and pressed down against it.  
  
“Upstairs is clean,” Sergeant Donovan’s voice rang from off to the side. “Well, of drugs, anyway.” John felt his heart stop as he remembered the illegal gun behind the chest-of-drawers. “The bed, on the other hand, looks like it got some use.” _Not my gun, then. Thank God._ Distantly, he remembered that he hadn’t made the bed after getting up that morning. He and Mycroft had probably mussed the sheets up further.  
  
“Not your boyfriend, hm?” she asked pointedly.  
  
Abruptly, John realized that they still only had the one bed and blushed furiously. Sherlock nearly _growled_ and turned back to Lestrade.  
  
“Keep looking, guys,” Lestrade called. He turned to Sherlock and offered, “Or you can start help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”  
  
“This is childish,” Sherlock hissed, tearing himself away from John and pacing furiously.  
  
The DI took to his feet and stepped into Sherlock’s space. “Yeah, well I’m dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case; I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own! Clear?”  
  
“Or what, you set up some kind of _pretend_ drugs bust to bully me?”  
  
 _Enough._ “Sherlock.” When that didn’t get a response, John reached out and caught the back of Sherlock’s neck on the next pass and reeled him in. “Sherlock. He’s right.” He pressed their foreheads together, remembering that physical contact was a major part of the alien’s culture. “Try to cooperate.” Around them, activity dropped to stillness as the police force stared in shock.  
  
Voice dropped to a tight whisper, Sherlock replied, “They’re not fast enough, John, they can’t keep up or catch up; I can get it done so much quicker!” He started to pull away, but John tightened his grip and pulled him back.  
  
“Maybe, but you don’t have to. Calm down. Work with us; it’s not as bad as it sounds.”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “It sounds pretty bad.” But the tiny ripples under John’s hand evened out until he was holding smooth skin again, and Sherlock stopped his frantically jerky movements.  
  
At least until Donovan opened her mouth. “Wow, if I’d known that it would mean having a lion-tamer, I’d have helped him get laid a long time ago.” Sherlock’s lips parted in a silent snarl.  
  
“Quiet, Donovan,” Lestrade said, “Don’t antagonize him any more than you have to. What have you got, then?” he asked.  
  
John released his grip as Sherlock turned to face the DI. “The killer has Jennifer Wilson’s phone. He’s abducting his victims from public places; I don’t know how, yet, but no one notices when he picks them up. He drives them to the places where they die, and they don’t struggle when they poison themselves. Have you found Rachel?”  
  
Lestrade stared at him. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” He turned to John. “That’s all he’s got?”  
  
“I was busy proving that his limp was psychosomatic,” Sherlock snapped, pointing at John, who blushed again as the attention focused on him. “Have you found Rachel?”  
  
“Yeah, she’s Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”  
  
Sherlock stared hard at the ground. “Daughter,” he mused. “Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?”  
  
“Never mind that,” Anderson interrupted, “we found the case.” He pointed to the conspicuous pink suitcase on the coffee table. “According to _someone,_ the murderer has the case; and we found it in the hands of everyone’s favorite _psychopath.”_  
  
“He’s not a psychopath, Anderson, remember?” Donovan said. “He’s a sociopath. We did the research,” she assured John, who gritted his teeth to keep from shouting at her.  
  
Sherlock turned his back on the byplay and focused back on Lestrade. “Bring Rachel in. You need to question her; I need to question her.”  
  
“She’s dead.”  
  
Sherlock froze for less than half a second before asking, “How long ago and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”  
  
“Well, I doubt it because she’s been dead for fourteen years.” As Sherlock rolled his head back and started to regain some of those frantic movements, Lestrade continued, “Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter fourteen years ago.”

John grimaced and looked down. _I can’t even imagine it,_ he thought, sorrow and sympathy for the poor woman running through his heart.   
  
“No,” Sherlock was muttering. “No, that’s not right. Why would she do that? Why?”   
  
Anderson piped up from the kitchen, where he was looking through their cupboards. “Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Sociopath: Seeing it, now.”   
  
“She didn’t just think about her daughter,” Sherlock reminded him. “She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It would have taken effort; it would have hurt.”   
  
John watched Sherlock begin to pace again, more sedately this time. A thought occurred to him. “You said that the victims take the poison themselves; that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he – I don’t know – _talks_ to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.”   
  
“Yes, but that was ages ago,” Sherlock denied. “Why would she still be upset?”   
  
All motion in the flat ceased again. John’s mind drifted back, unbidden, to those moments when he’d been considering the gun. _I suppose that answers the question of whether he’d be affected by my death,_ he thought numbly. Sherlock was staring at him like he was aware that he’d done something wrong but not really sure what.   
  
“Not good?” the alien – and he’d rarely seemed like more of an alien than in that moment – asked softly.   
  
“Bit not good, yeah.”   
  
Sherlock leaned towards him. “But if you were dying – if you were being murdered, in you last few seconds what would you say?”   
  
_Impact against his shoulder – Where was Sherrinford? – Gone; never there – It didn’t hurt this much the first time – Bloody fucking Hell, it_ hurts _– Blood, so much blood – How much blood could a human body hold? – No one here to hold me – Alone, alone; everybody’s left me – Dead men get one last request, don’t they? – Someone to be here – Just me and God, nobody else –_ “Please, God, let me live.”   
  
“Oh, use your imagination!”   
  
“I don’t have to.”   
  
He got a blank expression in return – apparently Sherlock had failed to make the connection between ‘invalided home from Afghanistan’ and ‘nearly killed’ – before the alien recovered and continued thinking aloud.   
  
Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway and told Sherlock that his taxi had arrived. “I didn’t _order_ a taxi; go away,” he snapped. John could see him start to lose control again, skin losing definition as it started to vibrate in annoyance, but his own hurt weighed him down and immobilized him. He didn’t move to reel Sherlock back in.   
  
The pacing got more and more frantic while John explained the situation to Mrs. Hudson until Sherlock finally exploded. “Shut up, shut up; just everybody shut up!” he shouted, hands trembling near his head. “Don’t move; don’t speak; don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, turn around; you’re face is turning me off.” John blinked at the last request until he remembered the eyes-in-the-hair thing. _Photoreception. Right._   
  
“What?” Anderson’s face was scrunched up in confusion. “My _face_ is? You’re not even looking at me!”   
  
Lestrade jumped in. “Everyone quiet and still,” he ordered. “Anderson, turn your back.”   
  
“Oh, for God’s sake –”   
  
“Your back! Now, please!”   
  
“Come on, think,” Sherlock muttered to himself. John passed him by to take a seat in his armchair.   
  
“But what about your taxi?”   
  
Sherlock whirled on the poor woman, face contorted so that it barely passed for human. _“Mrs. Hudson!”_ She spun on her heel and hurried back down the stairs, expression terrified.   
  
“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, face relaxing back into its normal human appearance. “Oh, she was clever, clever.” He opened his laptop and typed a web address into the address bar of his browser. “She never lost her phone; she _planted_ it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone to lead us to her killer.”   
  
“Yeah, but how?” Lestrade demanded.   
  
Sherlock looked up at him incredulously before turning his gaze to John. His expression said, _‘See? I told you they couldn’t keep up.’_ John just shook his head and gripped his cane. “How, Sherlock,” he demanded sharply.

“On the luggage, there’s an email address,” Sherlock said. “Read it to me, John.” He did. “No laptop in the case; she did all her business on her phone. That means there’s an online account for her phone. The email address is her username, and her password is?”  
  
“Rachel,” John said, coming to stand behind him.  
  
“Yes. The phone is a Smartphone; it’s GPS-enabled, which means that we can track it and find out exactly where our killer is at.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson raced up the stairs again to brave the wrath of Sherlock Holmes. “Sherlock,” she said, “this taxi driver –”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stood and turned to loom over her. “Mrs. Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soap opera?” he suggested before swooping on. John took his seat in front of the computer and watched the dial on the screen turn around and around.  
  
The image came up, and John stared at it in disbelief. “Sherlock,” he called over his shoulder. The mob of policemen came to stare at the map. “It says the phone is here – 221 Baker Street.” The let-down of the entire situation left John just feeling tired, and he ran a hand over his face as everyone else muttered at each other. He glanced up when he noticed Sherlock standing perfectly still. “Sherlock?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock turned to look at him and flashed a smile. The semi-active body language returned, but John stared at him as he realized that it was too stiff to be anything but faked. He caught Sherlock’s eye again and raised an eyebrow.  
  
The alien sighed and turned to the door. “I’m going to go out and get some fresh air,” he announced to the room. “I can’t think.” He grabbed his coat and escaped down the stairs. John watched him go with pursed lips, but he really did seem uncomfortable in the atmosphere of the flat.  
  
A minute turned into three turned into five, and John looked out the front window. Sherlock was gone. Feeling numb, he announced it to the room before going to sit back in front of the computer. He listened dully to the discussion that took place behind him, cane clenched between his hands, but didn’t make any move to take part in it. At one point, Lestrade called Sherlock’s phone and cursed when it rang out. The policemen slowly began to trickle out – and _damn_ Sergeant Donovan, anyway; she didn’t know Sherlock _at all_ – until it was just John and the Detective Inspector.  
  
Lestrade sighed and came over to stand by the shorter man. “Look,” he said. “It’s none of my business who you’re sleeping with, but you seem like a nice enough guy, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.” John remained silent and didn’t look at him. “I don’t want to see Sherlock get hurt, either. And I think that eventually, one of you is going to end up tearing the other apart. Sherlock’s too different and you’re too solid. What you did earlier – getting him to stop and listen for a change – was great for us, but you can’t control Sherlock. One day he’ll decide that you’re trying to own him, and he’ll break you. I don’t want to see that happen.”  
  
When John remained silent and unresponsive, Lestrade sighed and put on his coat. “Just think about it,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking for.”  
  
The flat was empty.  
  
John sat at the desk, staring expressionlessly at the computer screen. Nothing moved in the flat for a good sixty seconds; John just stared at the computer screen. Breathed in, breathed out. Blinked.  
  
Jumped up, screamed at the ceiling, and threw his cane across the room. He stood there, heaving gulps of air into his lungs as he fought with the maelstrom of emotions. Anger and hurt were the most obvious; Sherlock had left him _again,_ and this time there was no explaining it away as anything less than abandonment. Despite that, there was worry and concern for Sherlock, who had looked so lost when the GPS had placed the phone in their flat and who was now missing somewhere in London. And beneath it all was the fear. Because Lestrade hadn’t said anything that John hadn’t thought before. Sherlock could – and would – break him so easily, and John had never felt so out-of-control about his own life before. _“Damn it,”_ he breathed, running a hand down his face.

He considered going to sleep and waiting for Sherlock to return. He considered leaving and never coming back. He considered calling Sherlock and leaving a message asking him what the _Hell_ he was playing at. He considered going upstairs and digging his gun out from behind the chest-of-drawers.   
  
He sat back down and hit refresh on the laptop. The moving icon came as a total surprise. “God damn it, Sherlock,” he muttered, jumping to his feet and rushing upstairs. He pulled his phone out and dialed Scotland Yard one-handed while shoving the chest-of-drawers away from the wall with the other. Something clattered from the top and shattered against the floor – _Sherlock’s, like everything else in this flat_ – but John ignored it and put his gun in the back of his waistband. He raced back downstairs, scooped up the laptop, and shot out the door as the call went through.   
  
“New Scotland Yard; please,” the woman’s voice on the other side managed to get out before John interrupted.   
  
He waved his hand frantically, phone held between his shoulder and his ear, trying to get a cab. “My name is John Watson; I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade immediately,” he said as a cab pulled up beside him. He jumped into the backseat and told the cabby to “drive; I’ll tell you where to turn.” The icon was still moving across the screen. “And step on it!”   
  
The woman from Scotland Yard started talking again, infuriatingly slowly. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is out of the station at the moment; would you like me to take a message for him?”   
  
“No, damn it; I need to talk to him now! This is an emergency. He’s not busy right now; he just left my flat. Listen, could you just give me his phone number or something?” He looked up at the cabby. “Left here.”   
  
“What is the nature of your emergency?” He could hear the clicking of keys in the background and just knew that she was wasting time filing a report.   
  
“You know those serial suicides? I’m pretty sure my friend was just abducted by the murderer. Now would you _please, for the love of God,_ connect me to Detective Inspector Lestrade? Turn right here and take the third left after that.”   
  
“Where was your friend seen last?” the woman asked, finally starting to pay attention. “Can you identify the person who abducted him?”   
  
“I last saw him leaving the flat – probably to go have a chat with the killer, the crazy idiot – and I didn’t see where he went after that.” The icon had stopped moving. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.   
  
“Sir, have you considered that your friend just went out for a while without telling you where he was going? I can’t file a missing-persons report until he’s been missing for more than forty-eight hours.”   
  
_Are you even listening to me?_ “I don’t want you to file a report! I want you to give me Lestrade’s number! Lives are in danger, here; I _know_ that he’s with the killer. Now will you _please_ just get me Lestrade?”   
  
“Please hold,” she said calmly. Ridiculously inappropriate bouncy music played over the line before he could say anything.   
  
John wanted to throw the phone out the window, but he focused instead on finding the cross-streets for Sherlock’s location on the map. “Take the next left,” he told the cabby, trying to remain calm. They had almost made it to wherever Sherlock had gone – only a few kilometres left.   
  
“Dr. Watson?” Detective Inspector Lestrade’s voice was nothing short of music to his ears.   
  
“Lestrade! After you left, I hit refresh; the phone moved. I’m sure that Sherlock went with the killer when he walked out.”   
  
“Where is he?” Lestrade’s tone was all business. John gave him the cross-streets and motioned for the cabby to take the next turn. “We’re on our way. Stay where you are – do _not_ go after him.

_Little too late for that,_ John thought to himself. “Right. Please hurry,” he said aloud. He cut off the connection and leaned towards the cabby. “Stop there,” he said, pointing to the entrance to a school. “That’s all I need. Thank you.” He tossed some bills at the driver and jumped out of the car. The laptop he closed and stored under a bush as the cab pulled away, and the gun went into his hand. “Alright, Sherlock,” he muttered. “Where are you?”   
  
He sprinted up the drive, eyes darting around for a sign that Sherlock had been there. He reached the two main buildings and stopped to stare at the black cab parked in front of the left one. _‘Who is invisible, wherever they go,’_ he remembered. _A cabby. Of course._ Sherlock had to be in the building with the murderer, then. He bolted for the doors and crashed into the building.   
  
“Come on, Sherlock; give me a sign.” He ran through the hall, glancing into each room as he passed it by. _This is taking too long._ The ground floor went by quickly, and he bounded up the stairs to the first floor. Empty, empty, _empty,_ all of them. Where were they?   
  
On the second floor, he finally saw a tiny hint of light peeking beneath one of the doors. He rushed it and burst inside, gun ready. The light wasn’t coming from the room, he realized immediately; it was coming from the room directly across the courtyard – in the other building. He saw an old, grey-haired man through the other window, talking and gesturing to someone – it had to be Sherlock. The man – and could such an unassuming man really have killed four people? – grew more agitated and started waving his hands around; John raised his gun so that it was leveled on the murderer’s head.   
  
Suddenly, Sherlock walked by the window frame as he strode towards the door. He froze, obviously seeing John across the way, and John saw the murderer palm a knife behind Sherlock’s back. The alien turned towards the window, mouth opening and eyes wide – the killer twitched his arm back in preparation to stab, face contorted with rage – and John didn’t stop to think; he just pulled the trigger.   
  
Sherlock violently flinched away from the cabby as blood sprayed from his head to splatter over Sherlock’s coat. He stared across the divide at John, eyes wide; John turned away and bolted for the door. He could hear sirens approaching as he shot through the entrance to the school. John raced down the drive and dove into an alley behind a building seconds before the first police car came around the corner. He collapsed against the cool brick wall and drew his knees in, gasping for breath.   
  
_I just killed a man for Sherlock,_ he realized. _He left me, and I still killed for him._ The knife wouldn’t have hurt Sherlock, he knew, but the cabby would have known that Sherlock wasn’t human. He would have told the police during interrogation, and John would have lost Sherlock. Sure, he could just change form and continue on as someone else, but he’d never be able to risk associating with John again.   
  
And that, John understood, was unacceptable. He passed a hand over his face and groaned. _Even when I can’t stand him and he’s a complete monster, I can’t leave him. I’m so screwed._ He remained against the wall for another five minutes to give the police a chance to work everything out and imitate a believable travel time before he stood up, tucked the gun back into the waistband of his trousers, and walked up the drive.   
  
Sergeant Sally Donovan was manning the cordon when he approached, and she waved him over as he approached. “Sherlock is over by the ambulance,” she said. John’s heart jolted before he reminded himself that Sherlock hadn’t been injured. “You were right; he followed the killer and let him bring him here. Apparently the killer had been giving the victims two pills to choose from – one was poison and the other was a placebo. He’d hold the victim at gunpoint to force the choice – I think Holmes mentioned that the gun was a fake – and he’d take the pill the victim left.” She shook her head. “Insanity, all of it. What kind of a man does that?”

John shrugged and thanked her for the information. He looked over the buildings, blazing with the police lights in the evening’s darkness, and walked along the cordon until he could see the ambulance. Sherlock was sitting on the edge, wrapped up in a hideous orange shock blanket and talking to Lestrade. When Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him immediately, John leaned against one of the cars that formed a blockade and watched them interact. Lestrade seemed to get increasingly frustrated with Sherlock, who kept shaking his head, until he finally threw his hands up in the air and stalked away. He turned once to point a finger at Sherlock and say something before leaving him.   
  
Sherlock looked up at John, then, and the exaggerated shock on his face dropped to nothing. The alien stood up, dropping the shock blanket behind him on the lip of the ambulance, and strode past the cordon to stand before John. They stared at each other silently for several seconds.   
  
“Well?” Sherlock demanded finally.   
  
“Well, what?” Two could play at that.   
  
“You killed a man, John. You shot him. You still even have the gunpowder residue on your hands.”   
  
John brushed his hands against his clothes self-consciously and stared up at Sherlock. “I did,” he agreed. _Even though I was angry at you for leaving me, I did. I protected you._ “And?”   
  
“That’s it?” Expression twisting into something closer to disgust, Sherlock stepped closer so that he was looming over John. “You kill a man, and you don’t even feel remorse over it?”   
  
_Oh, Hell no._ “Are you serious right now?” John hissed, leaning forward and glaring up at Sherlock. “You’re actually going to get mad at _me?”_ He could feel the storm of emotion whirling up inside him again. _You had better be joking._   
  
“He wasn’t going to hurt me! The knife wouldn’t have done any damage – you know that! But you shot him. You _killed_ him.” At least Sherlock had the sense to keep his voice down; as it was, John could see a couple of people glancing at them curiously.   
  
“Of course I killed him! If he’d stabbed you, he would have realized that you weren’t human, and he would have told the police. You would have had to disappear, and I’d have never seen you again.” John struggled to remember why that was a bad thing. _Oh, yeah. Suicidal. Right._ “What the Hell were _you_ thinking? You went with a known murderer, unarmed and with no back-up – are you out of your _mind?”_   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, he couldn’t hurt me. I had to know how he convinced people to kill themselves; he would have kept silent about it if I didn’t go with him.”   
  
Something about that last sentence seemed off. “Curiosity isn’t just a human trait, Sherlock, and I think we can safely say that it’s a flaw for you.” _Wait a second._ “The killer was going to turn himself in,” John realized. “You only went to find out how he killed people, didn’t you?”   
  
The alien seemed to realize that he’d done or said something wrong because he hesitated for a moment before replying with a quiet, “Yes.”   
  
_Unbelievable._ John stared at Sherlock, speechless in the face of the other man’s sheer _idiocy,_ as he tried to find the words to express his disbelief. “You – I can’t – _You fucking idiot!”_ He shoved at Sherlock’s chest, surprising the alien into taking a few steps back. “You left me and _a flat full of police officers_ to go have tea with a serial killer _just to find out how he killed people?!”_ He pushed Sherlock again, but this time there was no effect. That just made him angrier. _“You left me again, Sherlock!”_   
  
Oh, they were making a scene now. Donovan and Lestrade were watching them and seemed poised to intervene if it got too violent. Most of the noise and motion of the crime scene had stopped as everyone focused on the drama. Sherlock ineffectually glared at them over his shoulder before looking back at John.   
  
“He told me to come alone, John,” he explained. “I couldn’t take you with me. You knew that I was coming back.”   
  
“That’s not the point, Sherlock!” John wondered if Sherlock would ever understand exactly what he did to him every time he abandoned John to go chase some other criminal.

“Then what is?” There were visible ripples running down Sherlock’s face; he was getting frustrated. _Good,_ John thought spitefully. Then, _No, not good. I need for him to understand._  
  
Time to spell it out then. John forced his voice to stay even and calm to cover the raging hurt that wanted to run through his words. “Every time you leave me behind to chase some criminal or go after some clue, you’re telling me that it’s more important to you than I am.” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John held up his hand and cut him off. “It may not be what you mean, but it’s what I hear. And it hurts.” _God, does it hurt._ “I can’t do this, Sherlock. I can’t handle you tossing me aside like that. Maybe if I hadn’t gone through that last year in Afghanistan alone things would be different, but I need to know that I’m important to you.”  
  
“You are,” Sherlock said. He brought a hand up to hover over John’s shoulder uncertainly. “You are.”  
  
John didn’t move to meet his touch, and Sherlock dropped his hand back to his side. “You need to prove it, then, because I can’t trust you to mean what you say anymore. You promised that you wouldn’t hurt me again, but you did.” He sighed and stepped away from Sherlock. “I need to get away from you for a while,” he said flatly. The immediate pain on Sherlock’s face made him wince guiltily, but he continued. “I feel trapped; I don’t have anywhere to go that’s safe.” _You were supposed to be safe._ He turned his head away and sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “But I don’t have anywhere else I can stay.” _I really boxed myself in this time, didn’t I?_  
  
A polite cough from behind John startled him into whirling around, eyes wide. Mycroft grimaced apologetically as he approached but gave him a gentle smile. “John, Sherlock,” he greeted. Anthea was standing beside an idling car several metres away. “Is everything alright?”  
  
John could feel Sherlock bristling behind him and cut him off. “No, it’s not, but there’s really nothing you can do to help.” He shrugged. “Thanks, though.”  
  
“Actually,” Sherlock said slowly, “there might be something you can do for us.” Eyebrow raised, John turned to look at the alien, who was staring at Mycroft. “Do you still have a spare bedroom?”  
  
“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “It’s open to you – either of you – whenever you need it; you know that.” He glanced at John before turning his gaze back to his brother. “For as long as you need it,” he added meaningfully.  
  
He was offering a safe place for one of them to stay, John realized. He knew immediately that if anyone left Baker Street for a while, it would have to be him. The flat reminded him too much of Sherlock for him to be comfortable there alone.  
  
 _Spend some time with Mycroft to get away from Sherlock?_ It was an interesting thought. He remembered that morning, when Mycroft had talked him down and helped him reconcile with Sherlock. Was Mycroft really safe, or would it feel like just another foxhole in the battlefield? _‘You’re family. You’ll never have anything from me but honesty.’_ “Maybe that would be for the best,” John said slowly, still considering the possible repercussions. He turned to Sherlock. “You should stay in Baker Street; you’ve got more things there than I do.” _It’s got too much of your personality._ “I can stay with Mycroft until I’m ready to see you again,” he suggested.  
  
There was a moment of awkward silence before Sherlock suddenly wrapped himself around John in a hug. “Please come back soon,” he whispered before disengaging and walking away. He was halfway to the drive before John managed to unfreeze and stare after him.  
  
John tried to ignore Lestrade’s eyes on him as he turned back to Mycroft and followed him back to the car. He’d return to Baker Street eventually, he knew; he wasn’t strong enough to remove Sherlock from his life altogether. First, however, it was time to get to know the other side of his new family.


	6. All the Lonely People

The first night was the hardest.   
  
John woke with a gasp, throat hoarse from screaming and fingers scrabbling desperately against the gritty sand of the desert. _Sherrinford; Sherrinford, where are you? Sherrinford!_ The familiar slide of oil-plastic over his wrist calmed him marginally, and he stopped thrashing, air rasping in his throat. He curled on his side against Sherrinford and clutched at the alien’s form, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Gradually, the grains of sand faded to the silky-soft sheets of Mycroft’s guest bed, and he realized that Mycroft was gripping his upper arms. Face flushed in mortification, he rolled away from the edge of the bed, releasing Mycroft’s waist in the process.   
  
“Sorry if I bothered you,” he mumbled. _I probably freaked him out pretty badly._ “I’m fine now; it was just a nightmare.”   
  
He was still shaking, so he tried taking deep breaths to calm himself. After the screaming nightmare, the last thing he wanted to do was accidentally convince Mycroft that he was furious with him. The alien hesitantly laid a hand across his shoulder, but with his nerves so tightly wound the unanticipated action made him instinctively flinch away. Mycroft immediately pulled his hand back.   
  
_Damn it, John, stop acting like a whiny brat. You know physical contact is important to their culture; he was just trying to comfort you. Calm down._ With effort, he forced his shoulders still and rolled back to face the alien. Mycroft was watching him warily, hand still outstretched in his direction. John reached out and took the alien’s hand in his own; he smiled shakily and was pleased when it seemed to calm the alien somewhat.   
  
“I’ve never seen anyone so scared,” Mycroft murmured, gently drawing John into his embrace. “Never on my planet, and never on yours. What frightened you?” The alien’s limbs devolved into a tangle of curling tendrils that shifted restlessly over John’s back and arms.   
  
John felt his shoulders twitch and clamped down on the reaction before it could become a full-bodied shudder. “Are you familiar with nightmares?” he asked in response.   
  
The alien hummed and pulled John deeper into his weaving limbs. “Not particularly, no. I don’t sleep, so I don’t dream.”   
  
“Do you know how dreaming works, at least?”   
  
“Explain it to me, just in case,” Mycroft requested. The tendrils slowed their mad dance over John’s back and began to settle against him.   
  
“When humans are asleep, our brains continue to fire electrical impulses – we still think.” _Do they have brains? Where would they go when they flatten themselves?_ “It helps us to compartmentalize the events of the day and to keep us sane. A human deprived of sleep – of dreams – will eventually go insane.” The clinical explanation was letting John draw his mind away from that horrifying feeling of abandonment, and his heart rate settled back to normal.   
  
“Your dreams are similar to our touch, then.”   
  
“In that it’s necessary for continued mental health, yes; but we can’t communicate through dreams.” He reconsidered. “Well. Some people claim that they can, but it hasn’t been proven. Anyway, dreams are usually nonsensical – random neurons fire and create fantastic scenarios or images. Most of the time, this is pretty harmless; even scenarios that should be horrifying can be funny or blasé in a dream. With only a few exceptions, however, we are completely incapable of controlling what happens in the dream.”   
  
When John didn’t continue immediately, the alien pressed, “Is that what frightened you? The lack of control?”

He shook his head. “No. A nightmare is a different type of dream: Something terrifying happens or appears in the dream, and the dreamer is unable to wake himself up to escape.” His heart rate was starting to pick up again. “The dream feels real, and it’s impossible to tell whether it’s reality or not until you wake up.” In his case, it was both; he’d dreamt of the moment after being shot. Memory of his panic fresh in his mind, he burrowed further into Mycroft and hid his face.   
  
The next words came slowly, as if Mycroft was unsure whether it was acceptable to ask. “What did you dream of?” he asked. John tensed and started to shiver lightly. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft said immediately, tightening his grasp. “I shouldn’t have asked.”   
  
“It’s fine,” John denied. _Get a grip!_ “I was dreaming about getting shot in Afghanistan. Sherrin – _Sherlock_ wasn’t there.” He managed to keep his voice mostly steady, but his hands clenched in Mycroft’s torso. His shoulders started to shake again.   
  
The alien was obviously uncomfortably confused by the seemingly contradictory actions – _Shaking means you’re angry to them; stop it!_ – but he managed to keep a calm and soothing voice through his next question. “Would you prefer it if I left?”   
  
The fear of being left alone like this overrode any embarrassment John held. _“No,”_ he replied vehemently. He blushed immediately but didn’t relent in his grip.   
  
Mycroft brushed one of his tendrils over John’s hair. “Then I’ll stay,” he promised. He didn’t move away as John slowly calmed, and he even tugged the human into a more relaxed position as his eyelids started to drift shut again. The last thing John remembered seeing that night was a pale tendril waving hypnotically before his face. It was also the first thing he saw in the morning after sleeping peacefully through the rest of the night.   
  
After that, when John started making motions towards going to sleep Mycroft would pack up whatever he was doing and relocate to the side of John’s bed. He would stay there through the night with one hand devolved enough to wrap around John’s wrist and continue working silently until John woke up in the morning.   
  
It was the best sleep of John’s life.

* * *

John was more than slightly surprised to find that Sherlock’s brother was a decent cook. When he stumbled down the stairs the next morning after getting dressed, the smell of bacon and eggs came as a complete shock. He rounded the corner to the kitchen and stared at Mycroft in disbelief: The alien was stationed in front of the stove, waging war against the eggs in the frying pan with only a spatula and an absurdly pink apron. “Er,” he managed as Mycroft turned to smile at him. “You cook?”   
  
“Not before today, no; I assure you that I researched the matter thoroughly before you woke up, however.” He motioned to the laptop on the counter; John realized that it had a page opened on the mechanics of cooking on a stove.   
  
“Oh.” John stood awkwardly in the doorway for a few more moments. “Is there anything I can help you with?”   
  
“Grab something to drink, if you want anything,” Mycroft suggested, nodding towards the fridge. “I went shopping last night after you went to sleep the first time; there’s orange juice and milk in the fridge, and I put some teas in the cupboard on the end. Cups and mugs are in the cupboard to the right of the sink.” He flipped the eggs onto a plate and added several strips of bacon before grabbing the two pieces of toast that popped up as he walked by. The whole ensemble went onto the counter while John poured himself a glass of juice.   
  
“You’re not eating?” John verified. Sherlock had never needed to eat, but maybe that was personal preference. Glass in one hand and plate of food in the other, he took a seat at the dining room table.   
  
He got a short laugh in response. “No, I’m not eating. I don’t have taste buds, to start with, and carrying around a glob of food in my body until I can dispose of it is pointless.” Mycroft sat across from him and waved at John’s breakfast carelessly. “As I can’t taste it, please don’t worry about offending me if it’s horrible. It is my first attempt, after all.”

A wary taste of the eggs proved Mycroft’s worries unfounded. “No, it’s fine,” he assured him. “I’m impressed, actually.”   
  
Breakfast passed uneventfully, if a bit awkwardly: John felt increasingly self-conscious as it became apparent that the alien was content to sit there and watch him eat. “So, ah, do you have any plans for today?” he asked between bites.   
  
“Not particularly,” Mycroft answered. “I could go into the office and work, if you’d like some time to yourself.” He must have noticed John’s wince because he quickly continued, “Or I could have my assistant bring me some of my work and stay to get you comfortable with the house.”   
  
More than a little embarrassed, John averted his gaze as he requested, “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d prefer the second option.” He didn’t really want to consider a day left alone with his thoughts. The aftermath probably wouldn’t be very pretty, if the nightmares from the night before were any indication.   
  
“It’s no trouble. I’ll call her and let her know.” The alien excused himself from the table and left the room, cell phone already in his hand. John could hear the murmur of one-sided conversation through the wall as he finished his eggs and took a sip of juice. He had just finished off the last of his meal when Mycroft reappeared. “She’ll be here within the hour with a few files for me to go over,” he said. “Until then I can give you a tour of the house – you didn’t seem up to it last night.”   
  
“Yeah,” John agreed. “That’d be great.” Getting familiar with the house might help him relax a bit and let down his guard; he was still twitchy whenever Mycroft went out of his line of sight. He rinsed the plate, glass, and cutlery and followed the alien through the halls.   
  
After catching himself scanning for escape routes in the third consecutive room, John groaned with frustration and collapsed back onto the couch in the front room. Mycroft paused his tour and knelt beside him. “John?” he questioned, tone concerned.   
  
John threw an arm over his face to avoid meeting the alien’s eyes. Or equivalent body part. Whatever. “Nothing; it’s – nothing.” There was a very incredulous silence from beside him. “I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he admitted.   
  
“You’re getting a tour of the house,” Mycroft informed him helpfully. John removed his arm to give him a glare. “Fine; you’re taking a break to pull yourself together and figure out what you’re looking for in life. I’ve read that it’s a common phenomenon for most human males.”   
  
“Most people don’t have their midlife crises until their late forties,” John grumbled. “I’m thirty-five.” Despite himself, he felt his spirits rise slightly at the banter.   
  
A hand appeared in his hair and brushed through it gently. The heaviness that had pressed down on John’s heart from the moment he’d realized that Sherlock had left again eased a bit, and he let his eyes slide closed. “Most people don’t have to cope with war trauma and aliens,” Mycroft reminded him. “You’re something of an exception, which is fitting because you are so exceptional.”   
  
“Don’t,” John denied. “I’m not; I’m nothing special. I’m just an idiot who puts too much faith in an alien who doesn’t get it.” He looked over at Mycroft, sure that his exhaustion was obvious in his expression. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t stay with him – he’ll break me if I do – but I can’t leave him. Not after I’ve just found him again.” With a sigh, he let his head fall back against the couch’s armrest again. “Sherlock is the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”   
  
The hand in his hair swept over his temple to cup his cheek. “And you’re definitely the best thing that’s happened to him; you don’t know what he was like back on my planet. He was always curious, but he lacked a certain drive. After I found him here on Earth, he had that passion. This might sound strange, but I think that he needed a little humanity. You made him come alive.”   
  
John’s breath caught in his throat. “So why does he keep doing this to me?” he asked. “He promised that he wouldn’t hurt me again, but he keeps putting me last. If I’m so important to him, why can’t he just show it?” It was getting harder to breathe.

“He’s trying to. You’re just not speaking the same language. With our physiology, we don’t really need to worry about expressing ourselves to each other – everything is obviously apparent the moment we touch. He’s not used to demonstrating his emotions with his actions. If you were one of us, all he’d have to do is make physical contact and you’d immediately know how he felt.”  
  
“But I’m not one of you,” John replied bitterly. “I’ll never be like you; I’ll never be enough. We’re too different.” _Our cultures are too different. We’ll never really understand each other._ His hand was shaking, so he shoved it under his back where it wouldn’t bother the alien.  
  
Mycroft brought his other hand up to cover John’s opposite cheek. He leaned over John until their foreheads were touching; John merely stared up at him with wide eyes. “You’ll never be like us,” he agreed, and John felt a stabbing pain in his heart. “We are different. But you’re wrong: You’re already enough. You’re you, and you’re perfect.”  
  
John closed his eyes and turned his face away. The alien allowed the movement and released him. “Then why can’t I be happy?” he whispered. _Why can’t Sherlock be enough for me as he is? Why do I have to be so damned insecure?_  
  
There was no reply.

* * *

Mycroft spent most of his time at the house, folders of information scattered around him as he scanned through them on the floor in the living room. When John expressed his worry that he was keeping Mycroft from his job, the alien assured him that “My work can come home with me; I don’t need to physically go to my office more than once a day to perform my duties.”   
  
“What exactly do you do, then?” John wondered, looking around at the huge piles of paper on the floor.   
  
“I analyze world trends – socioeconomic, mainly – and report my findings to the Prime Minister, among other world leaders. I then advise them on a course of action based on those findings.” As he spoke, he ran a hand down a printout and frowned briefly before grabbing a different sheet and scanning that one as well. “For example, I’ve just found hints of a planned terrorist bombing in Mumbai; I’ll have to warn the Prime Minister of India and find some probable targets.” He grabbed his laptop and flattened a hand out in a rectangular shape that covered the entire keyboard. An email filled faster than John could read it, and Mycroft sent it less than twenty seconds after he’d first started typing.   
  
“That’s incredible,” John breathed. “But I’m not sure that I understand how it works toward your goal of world peace. It’s great that you’re stopping terrorist attacks, but shouldn’t you be in meetings all day with the world leaders?”   
  
“John, your species is startlingly distrustful and suspicious. Your politicians are doubly so. It was difficult enough to convince those world leaders that I could do the analyst work that I do and to grant me clearance to their governments. If I were to announce myself as an alien ambassador for peace, I have no doubt that your kind would view my message cynically and probably see me as a threat.”   
  
_What?_ “What makes you say that? Humans are a lot more open-minded than you might think, if you’d just give us a chance.” He shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I?”   
  
“One of the suggestions made during my training was to discreetly examine the indigenous population’s lore surrounding aliens before determining a method of contact; your movies, books, and popular culture are extremely vocal on the topic of alien life. While some showed aliens in a positive light, most either viewed aliens as cruel invaders intent on destroying human life or portrayed humanity’s inability to accept alien life as peaceful, resulting in a complete failure of the aliens’ mission of peace. As the latter two types are by far the more lauded by humanity, it seemed only logical to keep my origins secret.”   
  
_Oh, God. He’s been watching B-rated horror movies._ “Please tell me you didn’t watch _The Blob,”_ he begged. _Heaven help us all._

“Of course I did,” Mycroft replied, brow furrowing in confusion at John’s answering groan. “The alien in the movie had similar physiological traits to my species; it would be foolish of me to ignore the probable association your species would have.”  
  
“Mycroft. That movie came out in the _1950s._ It’s not a good representation of humanity’s perception of alien beings. You can’t just base your entire relationship with humans on the entertainment industry; everyone knows that it’s wildly inaccurate.”  
  
“Well, obviously it’s inaccurate; the aliens in your _Star Trek,_ for example, appear to be nothing but disguised human beings in both physical features and personality traits. That’s rather arrogant of your species, by the way: Most aliens are nothing like humans.”  
  
“We don’t exactly have aliens who can act in the movies, you know; we had to make do with humans dressed up as aliens. There wasn’t exactly a whole lot of choice on how to portray extraterrestrials.”  
  
Mycroft shook his head to dismiss the topic. “The point remains that humans are extraordinarily distrustful of alien life, and your governments and people are much less likely to suspect an ulterior motive in my advice if they believe it comes from a fellow human.”  
  
“Is there an ulterior motive?” John wondered. _He did promise to be completely honest with me._  
  
“Of course; there are ulterior motives for everything.” At John’s wary expression, Mycroft assured him, “It’s nothing that would be harmful to the human race or Earth in general. It’s more to do with the fact that a peaceful society is usually more accepting of outsiders: I hope to eventually reveal alien life to your people and introduce our cultures on a wider scale. Your kind should, at some point, grow out of your instinctive distrust of anything different.” He smiled at the human. “Though you are an outlier, you have proven that it is at least theoretically possible for our people to accept each other on a large scale.”  
  
“Oh.” Feeling somewhat overwhelmed, John shook his head. “So you haven’t told anyone else that you’re not human?”  
  
“No; the family I met when I first landed in rural Great Britain believed that I was either heavily autistic or mentally retarded. You and Sherlock are the only people on this planet who know of my nature.”  
  
John didn’t really have a response to that, so he slung an arm over Mycroft’s shoulders and relaxed against him. _You must have been so lonely before Sherlock found you,_ he thought. _No one to talk to; no one to help you with our culture. You couldn’t even touch anyone – they would have realized from the feel of your skin that something was wrong._ “You told me that your kind would go insane without physical contact. How long would it take?” _How close did you come to losing yourself?_  
  
“It depends. When we don’t have any contact with another sentient being – no touch, no sight, complete isolation – it would only take a couple Earth weeks. A strong mind could probably last a little under a month. If we have other forms of contact – speech, on Earth, and sight – we could last a little over a year. After the first months, however, it would get increasingly difficult: Touch is our method of communication; it’s a way to affirm that what we see is real. I believe that the result of being denied physical contact for my species is similar to living in a dream – you mentioned that you can’t tell if it’s reality or not? When we can’t affirm what we see, we start to wonder if we’re really seeing it or just imagining.”  
  
Mycroft’s face had blurred a bit, and John pressed his hand against his neck comfortingly. “I’m here,” he promised.  
  
“I know,” Mycroft replied.

* * *

In some ways, John soon realized, Mycroft was worse at understanding human psychology than his brother. When he didn’t have a lot of work to do at home, Mycroft would often spend most of the day curled up beside John on the living room floor calling various politicians in several governments. Some of those calls John couldn’t even understand; he was fairly certain that Mycroft had spoken in Farsi to one diplomat.

After Mycroft finally hung up after an hour-long teleconference with several members of Parliament, body shuddering with ripples of anger that didn’t express themselves in his voice at all, John tapped him on the shoulder and informed him, “You’re doing it wrong.”   
  
The ripples subsided to mere tremors as Mycroft turned to stare at him curiously. “I beg your pardon?”   
  
“You’re too smug and self-assured when you talk to politicians.” It was odd, because John knew from experience that Mycroft was actually fairly soft-spoken and neutral when he was explaining something. “They probably feel insulted or defensive, so they immediately look to shoot down your ideas.”   
  
The alien stared at him blankly. “I don’t understand. I mimicked the speech patterns and tone qualities of successful politicians from your media; wouldn’t that put them more at ease?”   
  
_For an incredibly intelligent alien, you can be an idiot sometimes. Must run in the family._ “Mycroft, there’s a reason that the stereotype for a politician is someone stuck-up, overconfident, and born into entitlement. It takes a certain amount of narcissism to go into politics nowadays; they have to be extremely sure of themselves to think they can make a difference in the world. The thing is that many of them probably don’t think you deserve to talk to them like equals, so you’ll get farther if you act deferential to them.”   
  
Mycroft furrowed his brows and looked at his phone in confusion. “That doesn’t make sense. Why do they act like that, then, if it’s not the accepted mode of address?”   
  
“Because they don’t care what common people think of them unless they’re up for an election?” John suggested dryly. He shook his head and leaned closer. “Look, why don’t you try practicing on me for a while? I can tell you if you’ve got the right idea or if you’re being too smarmy.”   
  
“You think it will help?” he asked doubtfully. “Almost everything I was taught about communications with alien cultures told me to replicate the approach used by natives.”   
  
“As one of those natives, I can promise you that you’re not going to get very far if you insult every politician you talk with,” John assured him. “Now try greeting me.”   
  
Tone lofty and slightly more nasal than usual, Mycroft said, “Ah, Doctor Watson; how wonderful to finally hear from you. I have a few items to discuss with you.”   
  
“Okay, that voice has to go. You sound like you’re going to scold me for not eating my vegetables. Try something closer to the voice you use with me. And don’t say ‘finally’: It’s rude.”   
  
And so began Mycroft’s speech lessons. John boggled sometimes at how dramatically his life differed from the future he’d planned as a child.

* * *

John was slightly ashamed that it took him several days to realize that except for that first night, Mycroft hadn’t dropped his human form in front of him. It only occurred to him when he noticed that Mycroft was waving his hands around him wildly as he referenced various texts as quickly as he could while John watched the telly over the alien’s head. The constant motion was distracting, and he finally asked, “Why don’t you just form a few more limbs so you can check all of the pages at the same time?”   
  
Mycroft froze and drew his arms in. “I thought that it would be easier for you if I acted more humanoid,” he replied. “I know you’re trying to avoid thinking about my brother; I didn’t want to remind you of him if you were trying to keep him out of mind.”   
  
“Oh.” _I’m an idiot._ “It’s fine; you’re different enough from him that I won’t get you two mixed up in my mind. Don’t worry about it.” He grinned reassuringly at the alien’s uncertainty. “If you were going to remind me of him you’d have done it already; you have enough traits in common with him that I would have already seen him in you. Besides, it’s not as though I can think of anything else.” _Even after a year away from him, he’s still the most important person in my life. How sad is that?_   
  
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Mycroft said. “It’s really not that much of an inconvenience for me to act human.”

_Well, it worked with Sherlock._ “Before we had the argument, I told your brother that I would tap him twice if he was bothering me and he couldn’t see me to read my lips. Would that be okay?   
  
After a few seconds of consideration, Mycroft nodded and devolved into a puddle. He spared a few tendrils to remove the articles of clothing from his body and placed them neatly to the side of the couch as he settled. John was a bit too busy staring incredulously to notice, however.   
  
“You’re joking,” he finally managed, mouth widening in a grin. “You’ve got to be joking. Are you doing this just to make me laugh?” The alien shifted so that he leaned impossibly to the side, almost as if he were tilting his head. John shook his head as a few giggles escaped him. “You’re not. Is this actually your natural form? You really look like this when you’re relaxed?”   
  
A small ripple made its way across Mycroft’s body as he obviously got frustrated with John. _‘What is so funny?’_ he seemed to ask.   
  
“You’re _pink,”_ John blurted, unable to hold back his laughter. “You’re bubble-gum pink.”   
  
Mycroft shuddered once again, more strongly than before as he glared at the laughing human. John wasn’t sure how the alien was glaring without any eyes – or, indeed, any facial features at all – but he was undeniably being glared at.   
  
“Sorry,” he gasped, trying to reign in his mirth. “Sorry. It’s just – it’s really, _really_ not your colour.” That almost set him off again, but he dragged his laughter under control and toned it down to a wide smile. “Go back to work,” he suggested. “It’s really not as funny as I’m making it out to be. Well, okay, it is, but don’t worry about it. It’s just a silly human thing.”   
  
He could have sworn that the temporarily mute alien was grumbling as he stretched out his limbs to scan the papers around him. John tried in vain to keep his grin under control as he turned his attention back to the telly, but the only thing that managed to bring it back into the realm of ‘smile’ was the winding caress of a tendril against his ankle several minutes later.

* * *

A week passed, and John spent his time either with Mycroft in his house or wandering the nearby neighborhoods when Mycroft went in to the office for an hour or so. Despite the alien’s best efforts, John found his mood steadily declining until one morning he just didn’t bother dragging himself out of bed. Mycroft brushed a hand down John’s face, expression worried, and asked, “What’s wrong?”   
  
Not really in the mood to be comforted, John rolled over and pulled the blanket up to his ears. “Nothing,” he grumbled.   
  
There was silence for a few minutes before the alien tried again. “Do you want some breakfast?”   
  
“No,” John replied shortly. A spike of annoyance raced through him as he realized that Mycroft wasn’t going to leave him alone. It dulled quickly.   
  
“Is there anything I can do for you?”   
  
_Leave me alone to sulk in peace,_ John thought viciously. “Yeah,” he snarled, whirling back into a sitting position. Mycroft recoiled and watched him warily. “You can explain to me why, if your brother is so worried about me and if I’m so important to him, he hasn’t so much as sent me an email asking how I’m doing.”   
  
The alien stared at him blankly. “You told him that you wanted to be away from him. He’s trying to give you space.”   
  
John groaned in frustration and flopped back against the mattress. _Damned aliens and their inability to parse basic human interactions._ “I told him that I didn’t want to see him. I also told him that I needed him to prove that I’m important to him.” He glanced at Mycroft from the corner of his eye. “That would generally mean that I want him to show some interest in my continued existence.” Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he muttered, “Don’t know why I bother getting worked up about this. Obviously I wasn’t clear enough in my wishes, and how could I possibly expect an alien to understand human social behaviours?” The sarcasm in the last sentence was almost sharp enough to cut his own tongue.

“John,” Mycroft said, laying a hand over John’s forehead. “Sherlock has been meeting with me every day on my way to or from work. I’ve been relating my impression of your health to him and sharing the memories of our interactions that I thought you wouldn’t mind me sharing. It’s the first time he’s willingly come to talk to me about anything since we had our argument about my strategy more than a month ago. Excluding our meetings once a week to reorient ourselves with physical contact, of course.” As John pulled away his hands to stare at the alien incredulously, Mycroft smiled tightly and added, “He, too, is baffled as to why my natural colouring is so amusing to you.”  
  
“You’ve been talking to him about me every day,” John summarized. “You didn’t think that this was something that maybe I should know about?”  
  
Mycroft shrugged, watching John carefully for cues. “I was under the impression that you didn’t want to think about him; it seemed better for me to keep our meetings clandestine.”  
  
“Are you familiar with gossip, Mycroft? Because that’s what it feels like you’ve been doing behind my back.” Despite that, John was surprised to find that he actually felt better. Maybe it was because Sherlock had been making an effort to find out how he was doing, even if he could have just _called_ and John would have been happy. The Holmes brothers seemed to share an aversion to John’s phone.  
  
“I’m sorry,” the alien apologized. “I can tell him that you’ve asked for me to stop sharing my memories about you, if you’d like.” He looked singularly reluctant to do so, and John considered the position Mycroft had put himself in. The fight with Sherlock had trapped Mycroft between his blood-brother and his adoptive brother; there really wasn’t a good way out of that tug-of-war unless one side let go.  
  
“I would,” John decided. “Tell him to just call me himself, instead.” _You don’t deserve to be stuck in the middle of our problems, but I’m still not going to make the first move this time._  
  
Mycroft stared at him with a blank expression for several seconds, surprised, before a grin made its way across his face. He hugged John and said, “Sherlock will be happy to hear that. He’s missed you.”  
  
John wrapped an arm around the alien in return. “Yeah, well. He’s not the only one.” His heart felt lighter than it had for most of the week, and he let the corners of his lips drift up accordingly.

* * *

The call came the next day, only about twenty minutes after Mycroft left to go to the office. John stared at the phone apprehensively for several seconds – suddenly, it didn’t seem like such a great idea anymore – before taking a breath and accepting the call. “Hello, Sherlock.”   
  
“John,” Sherlock said, voice flat. John blinked in surprise. “How are you doing?”   
  
Before he could think of censoring his words, too distracted with wondering why Sherlock was acting so coldly, John replied, “I thought you already knew that from talking to Mycroft.”   
  
There was silence, and John mentally cursed himself. _He made the effort of calling; you could at least try to play nice._ Before he could apologize for his lack of tact, however, Sherlock said, “I’m sorry about that. I hadn’t realized that it was unacceptable behaviour; I won’t do it again.” His voice was still flat and expressionless.   
  
A sudden suspicion appeared in John’s mind, and he asked, “What are you feeling right now?”   
  
“Fear, worry,” Sherlock listed flatly. “Uncertainty, nervousness, hope, happiness, relief, anxiety. Why do you ask?”   
  
_He doesn’t know how to express himself humanly,_ John realized with a strong burst of relief. _It’s like when his face goes blank; he doesn’t know the right vocal tones to convey his emotions._ “Because I was starting to worry that you honestly didn’t care that we were talking,” he admitted. He cut off Sherlock’s denial. “You sound disinterested right now; it threw me off.”   
  
“I’m sorry,” the alien said softly. “I can’t get anything right,” he muttered, voice gaining a hint of frustration.   
  
John relaxed back against the couch. “You do a lot better than you give yourself credit for,” he corrected. “It’s just the little things that catch you up.”

“But it’s the little things that make you angry at me,” Sherlock grumbled. His voice was starting to gain inflection, and John took it as a sign that he was relaxing into the conversation.  
  
“Nobody’s perfect. You can’t help missing some of the social cues of humanity, and I can’t help getting frustrated about it sometimes. But you know what the bright side of it is?” he asked, sensing Sherlock’s despair. “You can learn, and I’ll get over it. Eventually.”  
  
Sherlock was silent for several seconds, probably considering John’s words, before he changed the topic. “Are you enjoying Mycroft’s hospitality?”  
  
“It’s bloody boring,” John admitted, “but he’s a good cook. And hearing about world events like this is certainly unusual, if not a bit freaky.”  
  
The conversation progressed naturally from there, and John even got Sherlock to laugh when he described how he’d gotten lost in the streets around Mycroft’s house, only to realize that he’d managed to circle around and back to the front door without even noticing it. Sherlock, in turn, told him about the case he’d been working – someone had contacted him on his website and asked him to search for proof that his sister’s ex-boyfriend was responsible for the threatening letters she’d been receiving. It had turned out to be a foreign boy who had asked his bilingual friend to translate love letters to the girl; the friend, thinking that it would make a great prank, mistranslated it without telling the boy, who then left the letters in the girl’s mailbox. The frozen expression on the girl’s face when Sherlock had explained was amusing, he said.  
  
John shook his head, a wry grin on his face. “I’d have loved to have been there to see that,” he said. Silence reigned for a few seconds, and John ran over his words in his mind to figure out what he’d said wrong. _Oh._  
  
“You could have been,” Sherlock offered tentatively. “You would have enjoyed it.”  
  
“Not yet,” John sighed. “I’m still not ready yet. I’m sorry,” he felt the need to add.  
  
“It’s your decision,” came the reply. John winced when he heard the return to flat tones. “You’ll come back when you feel ready to come back; I trust your judgment on that.”  
  
After that, awkwardness permeated their dialogue, and John eventually excused himself. Sherlock let him go without complaint, and John flopped back against the couch as he disconnected. He brought a hand up to massage at the sudden tension in his neck. “I’m not ready yet,” he repeated to himself. “Not yet.”  
  
 _But I will be._

* * *

The phone calls continued throughout the next several days – Sherlock would always call at roughly the same time every day – and John found his mood paradoxically growing both lighter and heavier as the days passed. He was always glad to hear from the alien, but after listening to tales of Sherlock’s adventures the stagnation of his situation was only more emphasized. He tried to keep his frustration and boredom out of his interactions, but it still only took Mycroft a few days to finally sit him down and ask what was bothering him.   
  
“It’s nothing, really,” John prevaricated. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “It’s just that there’s only so many ways to walk around the neighborhood here, and I’m getting a bit – well, bored.”   
  
The alien tilted his head and stared at John for a few seconds. “Yes, sitting around the house all day rather lacks in stimulation, doesn’t it?” he considered. Abruptly, he stood and headed for the front door. “I’m going to go into the office to get a few things taken care of; I’ll see if I can’t find some activity for you by the time I return.”   
  
John was left gaping at the closed door, wondering if admitting his boredom was really as bad of an idea as it felt like. _God knows what an alien will come up with for keeping me busy._

* * *

As it turned out, aliens apparently found working a great cure for boredom. Mycroft burst through the door looking very pleased with himself as he announced that John had an interview at eleven the next morning for a position at a local hospital. “Sherlock suggested that you had enjoyed saving peoples’ lives back in Afghanistan, and we determined that returning to the medical profession would be rewarding to you.”

Memories of the medical tent flashed through John’s mind, and he couldn’t fight the smile that spread across his lips. “Yeah, that sounds like a good plan,” he agreed.   
  
“The hospital is located approximately forty minutes away from here by foot; I can have a car drop you off at the site, if you’d like,” Mycroft offered, but John shook his head.   
  
“No, I think I’d rather walk. I haven’t been out and about as much as I’d like to be lately, and the walk will be good for my nerves.” He stood up and headed for his room, where his laptop would be lying on the bed. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go type up my resume. You didn’t exactly give me a lot of time.”   
  
A hand on his arm stopped him in the doorway, and he turned to stare at Mycroft curiously. “No need,” the alien said, pulling a folder from his briefcase. “I took the liberty of writing it up for you – there wasn’t a whole lot to do at the office today,” he explained, “and I want for you to have the best chance you can get at this job.”   
  
“Thank you,” John said, slightly dazed, as he took the folder. His resume was perfect, he found upon looking it over. “This is incredible. How did you get all of my information?”   
  
“Oh, that was simple.” Mycroft smirked lightly. “I have the highest possible clearance in the British government – I have to, to be able to get all of the information I need for analyzing world trends. I only had to look it up.”   
  
_I should probably be a bit more worried about how easily he can invade my privacy,_ John thought. He dismissed it. _This is Mycroft. I’ve got much better reasons to be worried about him than his security clearance._ “I’ll just go make some dinner, then,” he finally decided. It was still a little early for dinner, but the nervous energy of anticipation required that he go do something to keep himself busy.   
  
The day couldn’t pass quickly enough.

* * *

The white-washed walls of the hospital were a bit of a letdown from the mildly horrific images John had conjured in his mind from bits and pieces of Afghanistan. He had half-expected a scene of chaos as sobbing mothers held their mangled children to their breasts and stoic men clutched their nearly-amputated limbs to their bodies, but the reality was a fairly peaceful atmosphere of muted impatience. He felt his shoulders hunching as he made his way to the front desk to introduce himself to the secretary.   
  
“I’m here for a job interview,” he finished. The woman smiled kindly at him and directed him to the third floor where a Doctor Sarah Sawyer would meet him for his interview. John nodded and trotted to the elevators; the canned music that played from the speakers only served to wind his nerves tighter.   
  
He ended up waiting for more than twenty minutes while Doctor Sawyer finished up with a patient before she called him into her office. “You’re Doctor John Watson, then?” she asked, leaning over the desk to shake his hand.   
  
“Yes,” he replied simply. She took his resume from him and started to look it over as he sat across from her. A few seconds later, he forced himself to relax from the military straightness he’d adopted into a more relaxed pose. His shoulders started to hunch again, so he focused on examining the woman in front of him to distract himself.   
  
She was blonde with a willowy build, and cheeriness seemed to practically radiate from her posture. Everything about her was light and airy. John remembered the scar on his shoulder and felt very much out of place.   
  
“Well, Doctor Watson, I have to admit that this resume is rather impressive,” the woman said after several minutes of perusing the pages. “It says here that you were a soldier.”   
  
_Some of the best and worst years of my life._ “And a doctor,” he reminded her, wondering if she was perhaps missing the point. _I’m not here to be a soldier._   
  
“Yes, and a doctor. Actually, you seem a bit over-qualified for this position.” She placed the resume flat on the desk between them and looked up at John. “Tell me, Doctor Watson: Why do you want this job?”

“Well, I need something to do; something to keep me busy,” John explained. “My time in the Army when I was saving lives was one of the best times of my life.” _Until I was alone. No – focus on the present._ “I thought that returning to that field would be in my best interests.” He quirked a grin. “The pay doesn’t hurt, of course.”  
  
Rather than look reassured, as John had hoped, Doctor Sawyer frowned slightly and hummed. “Our hospital is a bit different than the Army, Doctor Watson. There’s not really a huge need for emergency surgeries here. It might be a bit mundane for you.”  
  
John opened his mouth, the words _‘Mundane can be good, sometimes,’_ on the tip of his tongue, and hesitated. _It isn’t the Army,_ he reminded himself. _You saw on the way in – everything is organized and calm. The worst you’d probably deal with on an average day is a bad case of the stomach flu. Is that really what I want? Will that really keep me from getting bored?_ He remembered the thrill of Afghanistan when a moment’s decision had saved or damned a man’s life; he remembered how his blood had pumped through his veins as he dodged through the mortar fire to reach an injured man; he remembered how he’d nearly flown on adrenaline after hours of battle, only to return to base and work for hours more. The realization that followed wasn’t nearly as much of a shock as it should have been.  
  
When he looked up, Doctor Sawyer was smiling at him softly. “Yes, it would be a bit mundane for me,” he agreed. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.” He stood and took his resume back.  
  
“Doctor Watson – John,” she called after him, stopping him just before he reached for the door handle. “If you ever decide that maybe a little bit of mundane isn’t such a bad thing now and then, feel free to give me a call.” She was holding up a business card when he turned to face her. “My personal number’s on the back,” she explained.  
  
John smiled at her. “Thank you.” He took the card and tucked it into his wallet. “I might just take you up on that someday.” With a final nod to her, he bid her good day and took his leave.

* * *

_Well, now I’m back to square one,_ John thought to himself as he made his way back to Mycroft’s house. _But I’m not, really._ Sarah had helped him realize what he was really looking for, and it wasn’t normalcy. _You’d think that I’d have already figured that out based on the people I’ve been living with,_ he thought wryly. _Oh, well. It’s better late than never, at least._   
  
Just as he was about to cross a busy street, the flashing lights of police cars drew his attention down the block to a yellow police cordon that had blocked off a large area. He could just make out the semi-familiar form of Sergeant Sally Donovan standing at the tape, and his curiosity got the better of him.   
  
“Sergeant Donovan,” he greeted as he stepped up to the tape.   
  
The woman turned away from a cluster of morbid tourists and stared at him, eyebrow raised. “Well, if it isn’t the Freak’s boy toy. I thought you’d gotten the good sense to walk out on him.” Behind her, the tourists slowly began to disperse back towards the main road.   
  
John gave her a tight grin. “I’m not his boyfriend,” he corrected her, “and I didn’t exactly walk out on him. I’m just staying with his brother right now.”   
  
Donovan gaped at him, expression one of horror. “There’s more than one of them? Good God, have mercy on us all,” she muttered. Shaking her head, she refocused on John. “So what brings you out this way?”   
  
“I had an interview for a job at the hospital.” John motioned over his shoulder in the direction he’d come.   
  
“Oh? You’re a doctor, then? Did you get the job?”   
  
“Doctor: Yes. Job: No. I actually ended the interview early; it wasn’t right for me.”   
  
“Really.” Donovan leaned closer to examine him. “So if you’re not looking to be a doctor – which is stupid, by the way: They make great pay – what are you interested in?”

Before John could figure out the answer to the seemingly simple question, a shout of alarm rose from the building behind Donovan. They turned their attention to the front door just as a man ran out, gun waving wildly in his grip. Police officers piled out of the house to give chase. “Stop him!” one cried. “He’s the murderer!”   
  
Sergeant Donovan cursed and sprinted back to intercept him, one hand on her gun. “Freeze!” she shouted. “Police!” The gun caught in her holster and wouldn’t come out; the man swung his gun around and slammed it into Donovan’s head, knocking her to the ground.   
  
John didn’t get a chance to think before the man was upon him. _“Move,”_ the man snarled as he approached. As the gun came around to center on him, John instinctively lunged forward and dug his shoulder into the man’s side below the gun arm. He twisted, legs and sides straining, and threw the man over his shoulder.   
  
The murderer grunted as the impact forced the air from his lungs, and John took advantage of the distraction to kick the gun away from him. Then there were policemen dragging him out of the way and restraining the murderer. “Jesus Christ,” John heard from the man on his left. “What are you, a ninja?”   
  
Adrenaline rushing through his veins, John shook his head and grinned manically at the officer. “No, just an old Army doctor,” he denied.   
  
“Hell,” the woman on his right muttered. “We need more Army doctors on the force, apparently. Are all Army doctors that good at taking down armed men bare-handed?”   
  
That brought on a mildly embarrassing set of giggles as the adrenaline faded. “Not all of us, no.” The two officers took him aside to take his statement – an extremely short interview – and wrote down his contact information before letting him go on his way. John was almost certain that he saw Sergeant Donovan staring after him as he walked back down the street, ice pack held to her temple.   
  
It wasn’t until he registered Mycroft’s utter surprise when he told him that he hadn’t taken the job at the hospital that he realized that he was still grinning.   


* * *

Happily, the resume he’d brought for the interview at the hospital was equally effective for applying to the Metropolitan Police Service. He filed an application the day after the interview at the hospital – “Don’t tell Sherlock, Mycroft; I want to surprise him.” – and was invited to Hendon to go through a day of assessment. By the end of the day, he felt wrung out and used up; he didn’t even remember hitting the pillow before falling asleep when he got home. It was brilliant.   
  
The next day consisted of a medical exam and fitness testing. John passed with flying colors – he hadn’t managed to lose too much muscle mass to the cane – and returned to the house sweaty and exhilarated. He told Mycroft over dinner to return to working in the office if he got the job because there really wasn’t a good reason for him to stay home if John was at work all day; Mycroft easily agreed, and John wondered guiltily if he’d been keeping him away from a job that he honestly loved.   
  
The alien sent him a confused smile as he lay down for bed that night, obviously happy that he was feeling better but wondering why mentally and physically exhausting himself seemed to be the catalyst. John didn’t explain to him, but he thought about it that night as he waited for sleep. _I’ll be able to help people again. I’ll feel my heart pounding again. I’ll be challenged to be my best again._ He considered those things that made him feel excited about his new job. _I’ve got something to live for,_ he decided.   
  
The letter arrived in the mail less than three days letter, and John Watson became a Constable.

* * *

John’s first day on the job was surprisingly intense: He was called along to a robbery, where he was given the task of monitoring the police cordon. At one point he’d caught a glimpse of Detective Inspector Lestrade talking to Sergeant Donovan – He was sure that he’d seen the remains of a nasty bruise on her cheek – but they’d gone into the house soon after. Several interested bystanders stopped and tried to take pictures of the crime scene, but John shooed them away fairly easily. It was a relatively dull job, and John started to doubt his choice in careers.   
  
The wrench in the works came in the form of a hysterical woman clambering under the cordon and racing towards the scene. John managed to wrap an arm around her and turn her back towards the cordon. “Henry!” she sobbed, reaching around his chest towards the house.   
  
Her cries brought Lestrade’s attention, and he hurried over. “Ma’am, calm down,” he ordered, glancing at John and nodding for him to release her. “Who is Henry?”   
  
“My son, my son! I left him here with Mary to babysit, but something’s happened! _Where is he?”_   
  
Lestrade’s expression was blank, and John could tell that there had been no child present. “Please come with me,” the DI requested mildly. They walked into the house together and John returned to keeping the cordon. The episode had brought a small crowd that was much more difficult to disperse.   
  
A few minutes later, the officers burst out of the house and returned to the police cars. DI Lestrade grabbed John’s arm on the way out and told him, “You’re with me. We’re looking for a dark green sports car – license plate EN02 HYR. We’ve already alerted the police department in Sussex to be on the lookout, but the man left not too long ago.” He started up the car and pulled into traffic, sirens off.   
  
“So wait; we’re looking for a kidnapper now?” John guessed. He could feel his muscles tensing in anticipation as the world seemed to slow down and brighten.   
  
“Yes. He had a deal with the babysitter Mary: They would stage a robbery, she would stall for time as much as possible while he took Henry back to Sussex, and he would use some of the money from the ransom to post her bail. She thought that they were going to escape to Spain until we managed to convince her that he wouldn’t be coming back for her.” Lestrade took a hard right, and they were away from the other squad cars. “We’re splitting up to search the city for the car – there’s a strong possibility that he hasn’t left yet. She was supposed to stay silent and give him more time.”   
  
They drove in tense silence for several minutes before John saw a flash of forest green out of the corner of his eye. He twisted in his seat to follow it and managed to read “EN0” on the license plate before it disappeared through an intersection. “I think I saw it,” he announced, and Lestrade glanced in his direction. “Take the next right, if it goes through; he should be running parallel to us right now.”   
  
“Radio it in,” Lestrade ordered him as he made the turn. “Tell dispatch that we’re following a potential lead and give them our location.” John did as he was asked while keeping his eyes peeled for another glimpse of the car. Lestrade took the next left.   
  
“There.” He pointed at the splash of dark green four cars ahead of them. “Can you see the license plate?”   
  
“It’s him,” the DI agreed. “Hold on; when the light turns I’m hitting the sirens and we’re going after him. Are you easily carsick?”   
  
“I was in Afghanistan,” John said wryly. “If I ever was carsick, traveling in the convoys took care of it.” He got a toothy grin in reply as the adrenaline pumped through their veins.   
  
The light turned, Lestrade hit the sirens, and they were off. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for the kidnapper to realize that he was being chased by a squad car, and he immediately hit the gas and swerved around traffic to escape. Lestrade cursed and sped after him. John could only grit his teeth in a snarl and hang on to the seat as he relayed the situation to dispatch.   
  
“ETA of backup is ten minutes,” he was informed.

At the estimation, Lestrade muttered, “Looks like it’s just us for now.” The street was relatively emptied, so he brought the car up close behind the kidnapper and nudged the back end. It almost sent the car into a spin-out, but the driver managed to regain control at the last second. The DI cursed and tried again.   
  
On the fourth attempt, the green car skidded into a safety railing, and Lestrade brought the squad car in to block its escape. The driver jumped out of the car and ran for the alleyways before John could even undo his seatbelt. “Come on, let’s go!” Lestrade snarled at him as they tumbled out of the vehicle. Both hit the ground running and sped after the kidnapper, Lestrade already talking into his radio. “Dispatch, this is DI Lestrade; suspect has abandoned the vehicle. Watson and I are pursuing on foot.”   
  
“Understood. Proceed with caution.”   
  
John gasped in breaths as he ran with Lestrade; the air felt sharp and cold in his lungs. His heart beat in his ears, a counterpoint rhythm to the slap of his feet against the pavement. He could feel the blood pumping through his body, feeding the mad rush of adrenaline that brightened his vision and sharpened his grin, and it felt amazing. It was difficult to hold in a wondering laugh, but he did it.   
  
They managed to corner the kidnapper in a dead-end alleyway after a few minutes. He spun to face them, eyes wide with panic, before lunging between them to escape. John caught one arm and Lestrade the other, and together they dropped him down. Lestrade gave him the caution while John cuffed him, and the man was confessing even as they dragged him back to the vehicle. Their backup had arrived by then; the majority returned to the crime scene to help with evidence while a few remained at the scene to search the car.   
  
“Look, mate, I just needed a bit of cash; I wasn’t actually going to hurt the kid,” the man pled with them from the backseat. “He’s fine!”   
  
“He’ll be better when he’s back with his mother,” Lestrade growled in return. One of the first things out of the kidnapper’s mouth had been Henry’s location, and another set of police vehicles was already on its way to pick him up. John focused on relaxing his muscles and calming his heart rate.   
  
Processing went by quickly enough; soon the kidnapper was behind bars with his accomplice, and Henry was back with his loudly grateful mother. The rest of John’s shift passed without incident. As he was putting away his uniform in the locker room, almost ready to head back to Mycroft’s, Sergeant Donovan approached him. Up close, he could see that her cheek leading back to her ear was discoloured from the barrel of the gun.   
  
“Hey, Watson; I heard that you did pretty good out there,” she greeted.   
  
John had straightened instinctively at the use of his last name, and he forced himself to relax slightly as he responded. “I didn’t exactly have a whole lot to do,” he denied; “Detective Inspector Lestrade handled almost everything. I was just along for the ride.”   
  
“Yeah, but it was your first time out and you didn’t panic.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway. “Considering how quickly things went crazy, that’s impressive. Most constables freeze up on their first arrests, let alone an arrest after a car chase. Gabe told me that you were right there with him the whole way, and that you even helped take the guy down.”   
  
His face was flushing, he just knew it. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning away to hide his discomfort with the praise. “Was there something you wanted?”   
  
For several seconds the room was filled only with echoes of activity outside. Donovan finally explained, “Gabe, Alan, and I have this ritual: Whenever something big happens, like a kidnapping” _– Being kind of obvious, there –_ “we go out for drinks to unwind. You want to come with?”

The heavy fabric of his uniform was soothing in John’s hands as he considered. _I don’t really know them, but isn’t that the point of going out for drinks?_ Abruptly, he remembered the few times he’d gone on leave back in the Army before Sherrinford had appeared. He’d always had fun, and he’d usually ended up calling his mates ‘friends’ by the end of the night. _And if I don’t go, will I ever get another chance?_ “Sure. Let me just text Mycroft so he doesn’t panic when I don’t come home right away.” _He’d probably set the secret service after me, if he’s got as much sway as I think he has._ “Where at?”   
  
She told him, and he forwarded the name of the place to Mycroft with a warning to not worry about him. The response made him smile as he followed Donovan out to Anderson’s car where Lestrade and Anderson were waiting semi-patiently.   
  
_Good to hear that you’re making friends. I’ll see you when you get back.  
-MH_

* * *

In the course of the evening, John was informed that Lestrade’s first name was Gabriel – “Gabe to my friends.” – and that he was only to call him Lestrade while on duty. Alan Anderson was in the middle of a rough divorce, and he’d been holding Donovan’s hand under the table when he explained. Donovan was “Sally, when the Freak’s not around,” and she was somewhat disturbingly interested in finding out how John had come to be Sherlock’s boyfriend.   
  
“I’m not his boyfriend,” John said yet again. “Why are you so insistent that we’re dating?” He took a swig of beer.   
  
Sally rolled her eyes and gestured to Gabe, who set his drink down to explain. “I’ve known Sherlock for a little less than a year, yeah? In that year, he’s insulted, ignored, or in one slightly horrifying case inspired every person he’s ever met. Hell, when he met me, he complimented me on being more unobservant than a blind, deaf infant in a sensory deprivation tank.” John had to smother a giggle at the description, and he got a weary grin for it. “I nearly decked him for it. But you show up, and suddenly he cares about making a scene. Suddenly he brings a stranger to a murder.” He glanced at John sharply. “Suddenly he’s letting someone touch him.”   
  
“He’s never let anyone touch him for anything,” Sally added. “Maybe a pat on the coat or something, but he’s never reached out to anyone or let anyone really get close to him.”   
  
“You grabbed him around the neck during the drugs bust,” Alan jumped in, “and he didn’t even put up a fuss. He actually touched you back. Do you have any idea how strange that is? The lunatic completely isolates himself – that’s part of why we think he’s a psychopath.” He took a sip of his ice water – he was the designated driver for the evening.   
  
“Sociopath,” Sally corrected him before turning her gaze to John expectantly.   
  
John swallowed heavily and willed some of the blood back to his face. “I didn’t realize it was so bad,” he rasped. _I have to put them off. Damn it all, I knew Sherlock was being too obvious._ “I knew him before London” _– Please don’t have a contradictory story in place already –_ “and he was very tactile. That’s why I grabbed onto him; he looked like he needed to be grounded. But if he doesn’t let anyone else touch him, maybe something happened?” _Like being an alien. Technically not lying._ He turned to Gabe. “You were actually looking for drugs at the flat, but he wasn’t a junkie when I knew him before. What happened?” _That was a smooth topic change, right?_   
  
Gabe winced and took another gulp of beer. “After about three cases, I’d accepted that Sherlock is a genius and that I need his help sometimes. I went to his previous flat one evening after work to ask for his help, but he was shooting up when I opened the door. It was cocaine. I told him that he could either come with me and get help, or he could come with me and be arrested. He came with me to get help.”   
  
A sneaking suspicion had sprung into John’s mind. “His previous flat – where was it?”

The address matched up to where John was staying. _Mycroft was living with him when he took cocaine. Why would he let him?_ He shook his head to dismiss the thought. “So he went through detox.” _That doesn’t make sense. Cocaine shouldn’t have affected him; he doesn’t have a bloodstream! And he said that nothing he’d tested harmed him. He must have faked the symptoms._   
  
“Yeah. I don’t know if that would have made a difference to him being touchy-feely, though.”   
  
Alan grimaced and looked off to the side. “It could if he did something that he didn’t want to be reminded of,” he suggested darkly. “He wouldn’t be the first.”   
  
Sally and Gabe both averted their gazes with expressions of distaste, but John had to grit his teeth to keep from shouting a denial. _Think, Watson: If you hadn’t known he was an alien, would you really have known better? Don’t give him away!_ “Either way, I suppose it’s Sherlock’s secret to keep or share as he sees fit,” he hinted. The others seemed to agree, and Sally turned back to face him with a forced grin.   
  
“So, you mentioned the other day that he’s got a brother. Do tell: Is he as bad as the Freak?”   
  
John rolled his eyes and related several severely censored anecdotes from the past week-and-a-half. He told them about how Mycroft thought that science fiction consisted of movies like _The Blob_ and television shows like _Star Trek_ – “And what kind of Englishman hasn’t seen _Doctor Who?”_ he begged of them amidst uncontrolled giggles. “He’s not as impulsive or outgoing as Sherlock,” he told Sally. The thought struck him for some reason, and he fell silent in contemplation. _I wonder how much of that is natural personality and how much is from where each learned his humanity? Mycroft created his human persona from watching politicians on the telly; Sherlock learned to express himself by watching a bunch of Army lads cope in Afghanistan. Of course Sherlock would seem a bit more unbalanced – he literally grew up in the middle of a war!_   
  
“John?” He looked up to find Alan staring at him worriedly. “You spaced out there for a while. You alright?”   
  
“Yeah.” John shook his head to clear it. “Yeah, I’m fine.” The grin he managed to put up didn’t convince the other three. “I think I’m probably about ready to head off, though, if you don’t mind.”   
  
Gabe glanced at the clock on the wall. “No, it’s about time that we leave anyway. We do have work tomorrow, after all.” He shoved himself up, only wobbling a little, and helped John out of his seat. Alan assisted Sally, and if her hand might have rested a bit too long on his arm no one pointed it out. “Alan, you still awake enough to drive?”   
  
Alan rolled his eyes and answered in the affirmative as he led the way to the car. They all piled in, and John only barely remembered to tell Alan that he wasn’t staying at Baker Street anymore. When he gave the address of Mycroft’s house, however, he got incredulous looks from everyone else in the car. “What?” he asked in confusion.   
  
“That’s Sherlock’s old flat,” Gabe reminded him. “Where he was living when he was using.”   
  
“Why are you living there?” Sally asked.   
  
_Oh. Right. Must have drunk more than I thought if I’m forgetting that already._ “His brother lives there; I told you I was staying with him, remember?” At the dark expression on Gabe’s face, he suspected that he’d made an error.   
  
“Was his brother living with him when he was doing drugs, I wonder?” The DI turned a too-sharp gaze on him. “Did his brother not mind because he was using as well?”   
  
_God damn it. I do not need this right now._ “No, his brother isn’t on drugs. I’m fairly certain I would have noticed by now. Doctor,” he reminded them when they appeared ready to protest. “Honestly, I wonder if he even noticed that Sherlock was using – they don’t really spend that much time together.” _Lies. This is going to backfire so badly someday._ John tried to ignore the twisting sensation in his gut. Lying had never really come easily for him, and to be doing it to people that he was just starting to consider friends – uncomfortable was an understatement.

The policemen seemed to buy his explanations, however; no one challenged him as Alan started the car up and drove them home. Gabe got out first – “Won’t you need your car?” “I take public transportation to work.” – followed by Sally. She seemed somewhat surprised to have been let out before John, but her house was closer than Mycroft’s. John started to get a bit worried when he realized that she had probably been expecting Alan to drop John off and go home with her – any port in the storm of a bad divorce, he supposed – which meant that Alan was intentionally taking him home last.   
  
As they pulled away from Sally’s home, Alan started the conversation. “Sherlock’s brother might not have been on drugs,” he agreed quietly, and John’s guts relaxed from their tensed coil. “But he could have been providing them.”   
  
_Wait, what?_ “Pardon?” _Where did that come from?_   
  
Alan’s hands tightened on the wheel. “I used to have a really great friend back in school,” he began, and John winced at the past tense. “But then he started to get more and more withdrawn – more and more erratic. I tried to find out what was going on, but he would avoid me or get angry with me. Eventually I gave up.”   
  
He took a deep breath and relaxed whitened knuckles. “A few months later, he died. Turns out that his older brother was experimenting with his chemistry set, trying to find the ‘perfect drug.’ He’d test them out on my friend. It’s a large part of why I joined forensics – I wanted to make sure that it could never happen to anyone else’s friend, but I didn’t have what it takes to be a constable on the police force.”   
  
John stared, stricken, as Alan visibly calmed himself and came to his point. “I guess that what I’m trying to say is this: I may not like Sherlock Holmes, and he certainly doesn’t like me, but sometimes he reminds me of that friend I had, just after he started taking his older brother’s drugs. If,” his voice cracked, so he started again. “If there’s any sign of it being like that, just know that you can call me. I don’t care what is or isn’t between Sherlock and me; if there’s anything I can do to help, I’ll do it.”   
  
There really wasn’t anything to say to that beyond a measly “Thank you,” so the rest of the ride passed in silence. Alan let him off at the drive and nodded a good-bye before peeling away and heading off. John found himself hoping that the man was going back to Sally’s, where he would hopefully find a comforting embrace, rather than to a broken household with an angry wife.   
  
It had to have been obvious that John was bothered by something when he came in, but Mycroft didn’t push and let John go to bed with just a brief description of his day. In return, John tried to smile gratefully; he suspected that it came out closer to broken. When he huddled up under the covers, the expected tendril curled around his waist with unusual hesitancy. He was sure that Mycroft had taken no part in Sherlock’s nonexistent drug addiction; that wasn’t what was bothering John.   
  
Instead he imagined what Sherlock’s life might have been like if he had been human. Sherlock’s constant curiosity would have driven him to experiment with drugs eventually, John knew. And if Sherlock had been human, it wouldn’t have been a simple matter of faking the symptoms of withdrawal before going back to life as he knew it. How different would their lives have been if that one thing had been changed?   
  
The thought terrified him.

* * *

John would easily admit that he was nervous about returning to the station the next day; his thoughts were filled with scenarios where Sally, Greg, and Alan confronted him about his evasions the night before. When Sally greeted him at the door to the locker rooms with, “Oh, thank God; the Freak’s boyfriend’s here,” therefore, he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or hysterical.   
  
He settled with a bemused, “I’m not his boyfriend Sally; didn’t we cover this already?”   
  
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, John; I think enough was talked about yesterday that we don’t really need to bring it up again, don’t you?”

_Oh._ Sally grinned at him as he sorted through the sudden understanding. _We’re pretending that nothing happened. Okay. I can work with that._ “Right.” He shook his head and tried to edge past her. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to change into my uniform before I’m late.”   
  
“Oh, no you don’t.” An arm appeared in his vision, blocking the doorway. “Your boyfriend has been in Lestrade’s office for the last hour, ranting about a case. You’re coming with me; your shift can wait.” With that, she grabbed his arm and literally dragged him away.   
  
“Sally; Sally, wait,” John pled, panic starting to rise. “Sally, stop!” He dug his feet in and forced them to a halt. Sally turned to him with barely-veiled annoyance on her features, obviously frustrated by the delay. “I haven’t seen him since the night with the cabby,” he explained quickly.   
  
They stood awkwardly in the hall while Sally absorbed that. “Oh,” she finally said. “So you’re probably not up to telling him to back off, are you? Right.” She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. “Sorry about that, then. I’ll leave you to it; it’s not as if we haven’t had to deal with the Freak before.” Eyes rolling in annoyance at Sherlock, she turned away to continue on to Lestrade’s office.   
  
_Oh, Hell. I’m doing this, aren’t I?_ “Hang on; I’ll come with.” At her surprised look, he shrugged helplessly. “It had to happen sometime, didn’t it? And it has been over two weeks.”   
  
“You’re sure?” Despite her words, Sally visibly brightened.   
  
“Yeah, lead the way.” His gut tightened with nervous energy, but he forced himself to follow her through the building.   
  
He heard Sherlock before he saw him; the man was in fine form. They had barely stepped onto the proper floor when the alien’s distinct baritone flooded the halls – a few metres later, John could make out specific words.   
  
“—Utterly imbecilic; have you ever managed to do anything correctly in your entire blind life? If you’d just called me in when this whole thing began, I’d have been able to _do_ something. Now a killer will go free because you failed to see the connections and you _failed_ to call in someone who could!”   
  
John stared at the office door at the end of the hallway, wide-eyed. “What happened?”   
  
Sally grimaced. “He came in this morning with a lead he’d found based on what he’d read in the news – when we don’t give him any cases for a while, he’ll start looking for them himself – and demanded to be let in on the investigation. Lestrade’s running it, at least, or he’d have been tossed out on his rear or thrown in a jail cell already; when he got a look at what we have on file, he figured out who the murderer was in less than twenty minutes. Problem is this: the guy left the country a week ago, but he hasn’t shown up beyond the border check since then.”   
  
“Fake ID?” he guessed.   
  
“Spot on. We told Sherlock, and he started throwing a fit.” She checked her watch. “That was almost an hour ago.”   
  
_Bloody Hell._ “And you want me to calm him down,” he verified. “Great. Thanks.”   
  
She shrugged and nudged him closer to the end of the hall. “He likes you. The worst that’ll happen is that he starts yelling at you, too, right?”   
  
Rather than merit that with a response, John chose instead to square his shoulders and step up to the doorway. He knew exactly when Sherlock noticed him – the alien stopped mid-word and froze completely before spinning to stare at him with wide eyes.   
  
“John,” Sherlock breathed, taking a few steps closer. “What are you doing here?” His eyes narrowed and shifted to glare at Sally, who had moved to stand behind John. “Did you arrest him?”   
  
“I’m not under arrest, Sherlock.” John smiled softly. “I’m working here. Well, I should be working here; at the moment, I’ve been dragged away from my job to get you off Lestrade’s back.” He nodded to the man from around Sherlock’s torso; Lestrade was looking rather harassed, and he returned the nod with a small grin. Turning back to Sherlock, who stared at him blankly, John continued blandly, “Could you please not throw an hour-long temper tantrum? It makes it a bit difficult for me to do my job.” Lestrade snickered behind Sherlock’s back, but the alien didn’t even twitch to glare at him.

“I thought you got a job at the hospital,” came the eventual response.  
  
John tried to ignore Sally’s noise of surprise behind him as he replied. “I had an interview for a job at the hospital. I walked out.” He grinned at Sherlock’s expression, which still hadn’t changed. “It just wasn’t going to work for me. I ran into a crime scene on my way back to Mycroft’s and helped catch a murderer. That pretty much decided it for me.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him for several seconds before dropping his head forward so that their foreheads touched. John tried not to focus on the sharp inhales from the police officers around them. “Thought you promised me that you wouldn’t try to get yourself killed,” the alien muttered. This close, John could see a slight blending of the features that steadily sharpened as Sherlock calmed down.  
  
“Not going to get myself killed,” John denied. “Unless, of course, you manage to bother my superiors enough that they decide to take it out on me.” He smiled to show that he was teasing. Mostly.  
  
Reminding Sherlock of the reason for his ire might not have been the best idea he’d ever had, John admitted in retrospect. The alien immediately straightened and glared over his shoulder at Lestrade. “I wouldn’t have to bother your superiors,” he spat, “if your superiors would just stop making such stupid mistakes!” The unmistakable sound of a sigh came from Sherlock’s other side, and John rolled his eyes in exasperation.  
  
“You can’t expect everyone to be perfect, Sherlock,” he pointed out. “Everyone makes mistakes.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “but not things this obvious! John, everything was laid out right in front of them, and no one caught it!” The very real frustration Sherlock felt about the matter was expressing itself as snooty condescension, and John could practically feel the officers in the vicinity tensing in anger.  
  
“Oh, come off it,” he said, hoping to diffuse the tension. He crossed his arms and leaned back. “It’s not like you’ve never made a stupid mistake before.” The eyebrow he got in response practically screamed a challenge. “Really? You want me to elaborate?”  
  
The reply was dripping with disdain, but John thought he could sense a bit of humor as well. “Please do, if you can.”  
  
“Trust me, _Ford,_ I can.” Ignoring the confusion he could see from the glimpse of Lestrade’s face behind Sherlock’s arm, John raised his hand and held it before Sherlock, palm out. “You can’t eat me,” he stated. _Yeah. Your first attempt at speaking English was a bit of a failure. Granted, that was a bit more my fault, but the point remains._  
  
The alien stared at him for a few seconds before grinning widely and bringing his hand up to John’s. “I’m a doctor. And Ford doesn’t count; there’s nothing stupid about it.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sally interrupted, “but I think I speak for all of us when I say, ‘What?’”  
  
Sherlock laughed quietly as John explained, “Inside joke.”  
  
“Great,” Lestrade cut in. “Now if you’ve decided that you’re done making a scene in my office, would you please get out?”  
  
“You’re all still idiots,” Sherlock grumbled cheerily as he headed for the door. He hesitated just outside it and turned to John, sobering quickly. “You’re still staying at Mycroft’s, I take it?”  
  
“Yeah. Still not ready to come back.” He thought over the last few days and how he’d rarely felt inadequate or insecure. The thought of Sherlock leaving him behind again was still petrifying, but he felt like he might make it through without reaching for his gun if it happened. _I have a support system,_ he realized. _I could go to Mycroft’s or talk with Sally or Gabe or even Alan. I don’t have to worry about being left alone anymore._ “But I think I will be soon.”  
  
The alien wrapped him in a quick hug before bolting down the hall with the excuse of another case. John thought he was just trying to get away before he – God forbid – expressed real emotion in front of Sally. Who, he noticed as he glanced at her, was carefully looking the other way with a quietly disturbed look on her face. Despite that, John felt a wide grin spreading across his features.  
  
It matched the one he’d seen on Sherlock as he turned away. Suddenly, it felt like things might just end up alright.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, John assisted in several raids and investigations and was unofficially drafted into Lestrade’s squad. “So I’m really more of a Detective Constable at this point, right?” he teased over drinks one night. Gabe and Alan rolled their eyes while Sally attempted to knock him into his beer. He got to know the three police officers better and found himself easily inducted into their group on outings.   
  
Mycroft slid himself into John’s changing life with an ease that mildly shocked John when he stopped to think about it. He was almost always home before John, and on the few occasions where he stayed late at work he texted John to let him know. John would sit with him in front of the telly in the evenings when he wasn’t out with the other officers, and he would watch whatever show was interesting while Mycroft spread himself over his work and analyzed. Eventually John would head to bed, the alien trailing behind him, and would fall asleep with a tendril snaking around an arm, leg, or waist. In the morning, both would prepare themselves for work and the process would repeat itself.   
  
The part that really surprised John, however, was that Mycroft still managed to engage him in conversation during their spare time. There was always some new topic to talk about, and John found himself getting into philosophical debates with the alien pacifist. The first time Mycroft had drawn him into debate, John had been hesitant to voice his contradictory opinions, afraid of damaging their new friendship. No matter what he said or did, he found, Mycroft would still follow him to bed and wrap him up in a tendril; that constancy eventually convinced him to speak his mind, and their debates reached new levels. It was incredible.   
  
In addition to the other changes, John slowly broadened his contact with Sherlock until he was seeing him almost every day. It started out as half-accidents – Lestrade would drag Sherlock into the station and demand that he explain something to him or give him the details he needed for filing paperwork, and Sherlock would hunt John down when he finished. Usually John was busy with his job, and he gently but surely pushed Sherlock away with a mild reprimand. Once, though, Sherlock had caught him on a break and spent the few minutes he had to give relating everything he’d normally have told him over their daily phone calls. John had noticed a few teasing smirks from Sally’s direction – Sherlock had wrapped a hand around John’s during their chat – but ignored them.   
  
After turning Sherlock away for the third time in as many days because he was _busy, damn it,_ John was finally fed up. “Look, I really don’t have time to deal with you right now, but I’ll take my lunch break with you if you want instead. Alright?”   
  
The grin he got in response was nearly blinding, and Sherlock half-tackled him in a hug. John heard Sally’s chuckle in the background. “Perfect,” Sherlock confirmed. “I’ll meet you out front at 12:30.”   
  
John didn’t even bother wondering how Sherlock knew his lunch hour – the man was practically as omniscient as his brother. At least he knew how Mycroft got his information. For the most part, Sherlock was still a mystery. “Sure.” As the alien walked away from him, a somewhat terrifying idea occurred to him. “But I’m not going to Angelo’s!”   
  
They didn’t go to Angelo’s, but they did continue going out together for lunches after that. Sally almost always sent him off with a teasing, “Have fun with the boyfriend!” to which he rolled his eyes. Sherlock, of course, didn’t even blink at the comments. _Damned ability to control his expressions._   
  
Mycroft, of course, was thrilled to hear that he and Sherlock were getting along again, even if John told him that their conversations had some gaping holes where they put the subjects that they _did not talk about,_ under any circumstances. John wasn’t ready to hash out the fight that had left him at Mycroft’s and Sherlock alone in Baker Street – and he felt guilty about subjecting the alien to what he’d avoided at all costs, now that he considered it – and he suspected that Sherlock was none too eager to bring up the topic, either.

Despite the occasional bout of awkwardness that would arise whenever either accidentally came too close to one of the taboos, their relationship steadily improved as they continued to spend time together. Even when John would leave one of their lunches uncomfortably because Sherlock had made mention of John’s gun, the alien always showed up the next day at 12:30 to take him out to eat. The ritual soothed John, but he wasn’t blind enough to miss the similarity to Mycroft’s ritual of sitting by him as he slept. _It’s because I know that no matter what I do or say, they’ll show up the next time,_ he realized. _I really am insecure._   
  
He couldn’t deny how good it felt to not have to worry about saying the wrong thing to send the aliens packing, however; it was that epiphany that brought him to finally ask the question when he and Sherlock were out to lunch. Six weeks after leaving Baker Street to stay with Mycroft, John asked, “Is the bedroom still available?”   
  
Sherlock stared at him expressionlessly for a few moments _– It’s just surprise, John, don’t panic –_ before smiling softly. “It’s always open for you, John. You’re coming home?”   
  
“I always knew I would.”

* * *

John froze in the doorway to the flat, eyes cataloguing the front room and comparing it to the memory he held from weeks before. Nothing looked the same, save for the basic layout and the wallpaper. Sure, the furniture was still there, even if it had been shifted slightly, but it was the shock of the sheer lack of clutter that finally drew him to say something to the silent presence beside him. “You cleaned. Why?” Cleaned might have been an understatement: There was barely any sign of residency.   
  
“You said I had more things here than you.” Sherlock stepped past him and placed John’s box of belongings on the floor in the center of the room.   
  
_I’m sure that makes sense to someone. Just not to me._ “Sorry, what?”   
  
The alien turned to face him. “You said I had more things here than you,” he repeated. “That’s why you told me to stay here while you went to Mycroft’s. You should have room to put your things here, too: That way, you won’t feel like you should leave anymore.”   
  
The sentiment was oddly touching. John smiled as he stepped further into the room. “That doesn’t mean that I want you to remove your things altogether,” he clarified. “We can coexist without removing the other’s influence entirely. Think of it like how we worked in the Army.”   
  
Sherlock seemed to accept this explanation, and he nodded and motioned to the downstairs bedroom. “I moved my possessions into there; it’s a bit cramped, so if you don’t mind I can spread it out a bit throughout the flat. I’ll still leave most of it in there, though, so that you have room to personalize.”   
  
“That should be fine,” John agreed. “It can be your room. And if it makes you feel better, I’ll go buy some decorations or something to put up.”   
  
“You don’t need to do anything just to please me,” Sherlock contradicted. He seemed almost alarmed at the thought. “I just want you to feel like you can do whatever you’d like with the place – within reason, of course.” He shrugged. “It’s your home too. It should feel like it.”   
  
John coughed to clear the lump in his throat before smiling at the alien. The wonderful alien who was going out of his way to make John feel at home, even though it was Sherlock who was light-years from his planet. “You’re here,” John reminded him. “It already does.”   
  
Sherlock smiled and grabbed his hand. “I missed you,” he admitted, smile slipping.   
  
“I missed you, too.” John forced a grin to dispel the suddenly weighted atmosphere. “But I’m back, and I’m starting to get hungry. I don’t suppose that you thought to go shopping for any edibles while I was gone?” The blank expression on Sherlock’s face was answer enough, and John found himself giggling as he pulled the alien back towards the door. “Come on; let’s eat out. You’ve got to know a good place around here.”

_I wouldn’t have it any other way._

* * *

That night, the nightmares returned. John gasped awake, afterimages of red-stained sand bursting on his eyelids as he reoriented himself. _I’m back at Baker Street,_ he reminded himself. _I’m in the upstairs bedroom, and Sherlock is downstairs. Probably._ After several minutes of ineffectually trying to calm himself to sleep again, he sighed and shoved out of the bed, nightclothes sticking to his sweaty back. _Might as well just go check on him._   
  
The alien had spread himself over the floor and was silently moving chemistry equipment from the downstairs bedroom to the kitchen. When John appeared at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock extended a tendril to hover in front of him while he continued working. _Examining me,_ John realized. He grinned tiredly. “Hey.”   
  
Sherlock butted him gently in response before returning to his position several centimeters in front of John. There was silence for several seconds while John tried to figure out what to say next. Finally, Sherlock set down the equipment he’d been carrying and reformed himself as a human. John noted with mild amusement that he had formed a navy blue dressing gown for the occasion. “Is something wrong?” Sherlock asked.   
  
_I could just say no and go back to bed,_ John considered. _Or try to, at least. Then again, he did live with me for almost a year in Afghanistan: He knows what a nightmare is, unlike his brother. Why am I even out here? Mycroft would have just slept by my bed, if I were still at his house. I can’t just straight-out ask Sherlock to do that, can I? It wouldn’t be proper; we haven’t even been back in the same flat for a full day, yet._ Sherlock furrowed his brow as they stared at each other, obviously wondering why John hadn’t responded yet. _To Hell with it,_ John decided, and he grabbed Sherlock’s hand before turning back to the stairs. “Nightmare,” he explained, ignoring the alien’s bewildered expression. “Just need to borrow your hand for a few hours. Alright?”   
  
“Fine,” the alien confirmed from the bottom of the stairs. His arm had stretched much like a piece of taffy so that John could tow the appendage with him without dragging the bulk of Sherlock’s body along. “Are you sure that you’re okay?”   
  
“I will be,” John called back before turning into his room. He closed the door behind him, forcing Sherlock to slide his arm under the door or have it caught in the door jamb. The hand twitched in his grasp, as if annoyed at the treatment. “Sorry,” John apologized to the grey skin. He dropped back into the bed and wrapped Sherlock’s fingers around his wrist. “See you in the morning.”   
  
Sherlock squeezed his wrist comfortingly before devolving into a sort-of bracelet and settling into the sheets. There were no more nightmares, and John woke the next morning with a smile as he felt Sherlock shifting restlessly against his arm.   
  
He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity note! When I first posted this fic serially, it was pointed out to me that a career shift to forensic medical examiner made much more sense for John than a career shift to a police officer. Rather than going back to edit, I just retconned in between these two chapters, and starting in chapter 7 he is indeed a forensic medical examiner. Sorry for the confusion!


	7. The Bereft Banker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity note! When I first posted this fic serially, it was pointed out to me that a career shift to forensic medical examiner made much more sense for John than a career shift to a police officer. Rather than going back to edit, I just retconned in between the last chapter and this one, and starting in this chapter he is indeed a forensic medical examiner. Sorry for the confusion!

As the weeks passed, John and Sherlock relaxed around each other and reestablished their pre-London status quo. John put some effort into decorating the flat in his style, and Sherlock tried not to cover every available space with experiments. “There are just so many substances on your planet, John; I have to learn to identify them at a moment’s notice!” he claimed as his excuse. John was sure that it had more to do with the fact that Sherlock was infinitely more curious than the iconic cat. At least he had a similarly inflated number of lives.   
  
They went on investigations when John was home from work; at John’s urging Sherlock began to accept more private cases. “How is this helping humanity?” Sherlock wondered. “Why are these people coming to me to prove that their spouse is unfaithful? Just ask them!”   
  
“Sherlock, we can’t always tell when other humans are lying, remember?”   
  
“Why bother marrying someone whom you can’t trust to tell the truth?”   
  
John hadn’t had an answer for that one.   
  
Despite the occasional hiccup – like forgetting that humans could successfully lie – Sherlock quickly became much more fluent in human behaviour. The moments where his face and body language would blank with surprise came less and less frequently, and sometimes Sherlock would even express surprise like a human. John couldn’t help but wonder if those instances were an example of Sherlock internalizing human body language or an example of Sherlock displaying his excellent acting abilities. He was getting better at telling the two apart – as quickly as Sherlock was learning human body language, John was learning Sherlock’s body language.   
  
They still hadn’t talked about the Argument – it had earned the capital letter – and the majority of their conflicts in those weeks arose because Sherlock would petulantly deny several well-paying private cases. “I can’t pay all of the bills myself, Sherlock; I need you to contribute a little bit more to our life than that.”   
  
Because Sherlock almost never took a private case of his own volition, John hadn’t been expecting a case when Sherlock had dragged him to the Shad Sanderson bank in Tower 42. He definitely hadn’t expected to be brought directly to the manager. “Sherlock Holmes,” the man greeted him as he strode into the office. “How have you been? It’s been – what – ten months since you left us?” He gave them an obviously false smile and shook Sherlock’s gloved hand.   
  
Sherlock returned the handshake. “Sebastian Wilkes. This is my friend, John Watson.”   
  
“Hullo.” John shook the manager’s hand as well, wondering why he was spending his day off in a bank.   
  
Sebastian stalled for further conversation before turning to his chair on the other side of the desk and offering them drinks. The alien declined for obvious reasons, and John followed suit as they sat across from the banker.   
  
Sherlock examined Sebastian for a few seconds before declaring, “You cut off a business meeting to speak with me – one with Mr. Sanderson himself, so it must be important.”

Though clearly discomfited, Sebastian gave them another fake grin and replied, “Right; you’re doing that thing.” He turned to John. “When he worked here – a little less than a year ago; I wasn’t manager yet at that point – he had this thing he would do: We’d walk in every morning and he’d be able to tell exactly who hadn’t gone home to their spouses the night before. It got so bad that nobody would work with him.”   
  
“And so I quit,” Sherlock summarized impatiently. “Now, you called me in. What did you want?”   
  
Sighing, Sebastian levered himself out of his chair again and led them out the door. “We had a break-in. I need you to find the hole in our security.”

* * *

After taking the first part of their payment, a check for five thousand pounds, the examination of Sir Shad’s old office and the strange symbols scrawled on the portrait took Sherlock less than ten minutes – John had clenched his fists nervously when Sherlock stretched out the window with only one hand’s grip anchoring him. With barely a moment’s pause, Sherlock dove into the chaos of the trading floor. John stood by the doorway and watched the alien dodge people and objects alike until he emerged with a placard in his hand. “We’re done here,” he told John as he strode by. “Let’s get going.”   
  
“Going where?” John asked, pushing away from the wall and following his friend to the escalators.   
  
“That graffiti was a message to someone in the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient…” he brandished the placard, which read ‘Edward Van Coon.’   
  
“…And they’ll lead us to the person who sent it,” John finished. “Brilliant. How did you know it was a message for Van Coon, though?”   
  
It turned out that the pillars and screens made it exceedingly difficult to see the paint from most places in the room; Sherlock had been following the line of sight until he reached Van Coon’s office. “It couldn’t have been any of the general traders on the trading floor, either; they wouldn’t have been there at midnight. Van Coon trades with Hong Kong: It’s no stretch of the imagination that he would have been here so late.”   
  
“So how do we find him?” _Shouldn’t we go back to Sebastian – much as I don’t want to – and ask him for an address?_   
  
Sherlock glanced at him and grinned. “There can’t be too many Van Coons in the phone book,” he chided.   
  
“Right.”

* * *

Except Van Coon wasn’t at home when they got there. After standing outside for a few minutes, Sherlock leaned forward to examine the intercom labels. “Just moved in,” he said abruptly.   
  
“Sorry, what?”   
  
“The floor above has a new label; the resident just moved in.” He turned to John and smirked before buzzing Wintle’s room. “Try not to freak out.”   
  
“Hello?” A woman asked through the intercom.   
  
“Hi!” John startled and stared at Sherlock, whose voice had risen to a high, bouncy alto. The man had the cheek to wink at him. “So sorry to bother you, but I live in the flat just below you. I don’t think we’ve met!” _Dear God, he’s turned into a yuppie._   
  
“No, I’ve just moved in,” Wintle responded.   
  
Sherlock fed the woman a story so she would buzz him in and lend him the use of her balcony. John just stared at him as the door of Van Coon’s building opened, mildly disturbed. “What the _hell_ was that?” he asked, ducking into the hallway on the ground floor.   
  
The baritone was back. “Oh, a simple matter of manipulating the vocal cords. You _do_ recall that I used to sound like you before I took this form, don’t you?” he teased. John shot him a dirty look but couldn’t help the grin.   
  
Aliens. Normalcy was overrated.   
  
He waited outside Van Coon’s flat while Sherlock jumped balconies to get in – “I only asked her to buzz one person in.” – and tried to ignore the twisting feeling in his gut. What if Van Coon had been lying in wait in the flat for someone to follow him and had a gun trained on Sherlock even now? What if Sherlock had lost his grip while jumping balconies and had been forced to reveal himself to Miss Wintle to save himself?   
  
Irrational worry led him to buzz the door. “Sherlock?” he called. _Calm down, idiot; you know he’s fine. Indestructible, as far as you know. And yet._ “Sherlock, you okay?”

Sherlock opened the door and waved him in. “We’re too late,” he told John. “Van Coon’s dead.”   
  
“What?”

* * *

John called the Met and told them that there was a dead man lying in his flat. “I’m a medical examiner,” he informed them. “It’s my day off, but since I’m already here I don’t mind working the scene.”   
  
The receptionist agreed and estimated that the rest of the officers would arrive in about five minutes. “Wait for Detective Inspector Dimmock,” she told him. John vaguely remembered a rather average, short-haired man from the Met. “He’ll be in charge.”   
  
“Of course. Thank you, ma’am.” He disconnected and turned to Sherlock. He was bent over the body, searching Van Coon’s clothing. “Hey! I just agreed that I wouldn’t touch anything until the DI got here!”   
  
“And you aren’t. Good on you, John,” Sherlock replied blandly as he continued his search.   
  
John rolled his eyes and dragged him a few feet away from the body. “Don’t touch it until the police get here,” he demanded. When Sherlock opened his mouth to object, he relented, “You can look around all you want, but don’t touch anything yet. We can’t compromise the evidence. Okay?”   
  
“I wouldn’t compromise the evidence,” the alien grumbled, but he limited himself to walking around and examining the rest of the flat while they waited. “Look at his suitcase; there was something tightly packed inside of it.” As soon as the first officer stepped into the room, however, Sherlock went straight back to the body and resumed his search.   
  
The officer raised an eyebrow at John, who shrugged and retrieved a set of scrubs and gloves from the technicians trickling into the flat. He came to stand beside Sherlock and looked over the body. “Cause of death is pretty obvious,” he commented, peering at the bullet wound. “Suicide – do you think he had money troubles?”   
  
“It’s possible. Unlikely, though. Someone was sending him a message with the symbols at the bank. Why bother with all of that? Why not just send an email or call him?”   
  
“Maybe he wasn’t answering?”   
  
“Exactly.” Sherlock motioned to the man’s mouth; John pried a sodden wad of black paper from it. “He was being threatened.” One of the technicians offered John an evidence bag to place the paper in.   
  
Before John could reply to Sherlock, Detective Inspector Dimmock rounded the corner and entered the room. Sherlock straightened from his position over the body and greeted him. “Ah, Sergeant” – John winced and coughed the man’s proper title – “pardon, _Detective Inspector._ We haven’t met.”   
  
Dimmock tucked his hands in his pockets and expanded his chest. “Yeah, I know who you are,” he snapped, “and I’d prefer it if you didn’t tamper with any of the evidence.”   
  
John glared at Dimmock while Sherlock stared blankly, clearly taken aback by the vehemence. Granted, he’d warned Sherlock about disturbing the scene earlier, but John hadn’t really thought that Sherlock would be inept enough to actually compromise evidence. “I see,” Sherlock said flatly.   
  
“I’m running this investigation, and I’d appreciate it if you would clear the crime scene. I don’t need civilians running amok and destroying evidence.”   
  
Sherlock gave John a bewildered look over his shoulder, probably wondering why the DI was being so hostile to him. John dropped the evidence bag on the bed beside Van Coon’s head and walked over to stand beside him, stripping his latex gloves as he went. “Sherlock Holmes has been a valuable asset on previous investigations,” he informed Dimmock. “He’s already looking into a related incident for the Shad Sanderson bank. It would be in your best interest to keep him on.”   
  
The detective inspector looked him over. “And you’re the one that let him in, I suppose? Well, get him back out. There will be no civilians in my crime scenes!”   
  
John felt fury rise up in his chest. Without sparing the man another glance, John snagged Sherlock’s elbow and towed him out of the flat. He continued on until they happened upon a storage closet; when no one was looking, he dragged Sherlock into it and shut the door.   
  
“John, what are you doing?” the alien asked.

“He’s being a prick, and we’re going to need your help, of course.” John brushed his hand against Sherlock’s coat in the dark – a real coat, which wouldn’t cause suspicion if it brushed against anyone in public. He shoved it off of Sherlock’s shoulders. “If you can’t go in as yourself, you can go in as _yourself.”_  
  
There was a pause while Sherlock considered. John waited. “I suppose that I could blend into the floors, if I need to,” he said slowly. “It might be a bit harder to gain perspective than walking in like a human, but it should be good enough.” The rustle of fabric filled the small room as Sherlock started removing his trousers, which were also real.  
  
John hesitated several moments before making his offer. “Listen, Sherlock: If you think it would help if you could stand up and walk around, I suppose that you could hide on my scrubs.” At the blank silence he got in response, John grimaced and clarified, “Like in Afghanistan.”  
  
“That would help quite a bit,” Sherlock replied after a few seconds. “Thank you.”  
  
The trousers dropped to the floor, and they faced each other awkwardly in the near-darkness until John rolled his eyes with a huff and held a hand out to the alien. Sherlock dissolved into a puddle that wrapped around John’s arm and spread to cover the blue plastic. There was a moment of pressure before Sherlock braced himself around John’s feet, and then it was as if the alien had never been in the room.  
  
The oil-plastic texture greeted John’s hand as he brushed over his scrubs reverently. _I missed this,_ he realized. _I missed knowing that he was always with me._ Sherrinford nudged his legs so he was facing the door back to the hallway, and John felt a grin spread entirely unbidden over his face as he stared down at the seemingly plain outfit. “Alright, I get it, Sherrinford: You’re curious.”  
  
The alien squeezed his wrist in rebuke, and John realized that he’d used the wrong name. “Sorry; Sherlock,” he corrected himself, opening the door. He had to be silent after that because there were officers milling in the hall around him, but every so often he would let his hand brush against the alien on his thigh to affirm that Sherlock really was there.  
  
Dimmock nodded to him as he stepped back into the room, sparing him a tight smile. John forced himself to return it and passed the frustrating man to go back to the body. When he bent over Van Coon’s chest, however, Sherlock brought his left hand forward to hover in front of his face. _‘What?’_ John mouthed. The alien stretched further so that he was covering John’s hand as well, and he moved the fingers to form the shape of an ‘L.’  
  
Remembering the old mnemonic device for distinguishing directions, John guessed, _‘Left?’_ His hand moved to make a thumbs-up gesture before Sherlock withdrew to John’s sleeve. _Left,_ John thought. _What’s left got to do with anything? The bullet went in through the right side of the man’s head._ When he didn’t jump with an epiphany, Sherlock covered John’s hand again and shook it gently, flexing the fingers. _‘Hand?’_ John tried. He got another thumbs-up for his efforts.  
  
 _Left hand._ John reached for Van Coon’s left hand, but Sherlock arrested his motion and gave him a thumbs-down. _Not his left hand, then. Left-handed?_ It was worth a shot. _‘Van Coon was left-handed?’_ Thumbs-up. “That doesn’t make sense.”  
  
“What doesn’t?” a technician asked, startling John.  
  
“Nothing, sorry; just thinking aloud.” _‘If he was left-handed, how did he shoot himself in the right temple?’_  
  
Thumbs-up.

* * *

Once John had figured out what Sherlock was trying to tell him, he explained to Dimmock.   
  
“And how do you explain the bullet missing from the gun, then?” Dimmock challenged.   
  
Sherlock didn’t need to prompt him for that one. “He was waiting for the killer. He’d been threatened.” At the DI’s incredulous expression, he elaborated, “Today at the bank, there was a sort of a warning. He must have fired when the killer came in.”   
  
“So where’s the bullet?”

_Great question._ There hadn’t been any bullet holes in the walls, but the window had been open. “It could have gone out through the open window,” John guessed. Sherlock discretely formed his hand into another thumbs-up.   
  
“Oh, come on. What are the chances of that?”   
  
Emboldened by Sherlock’s confirmation, John said, “Wait until you get the ballistics report for the bullet. I’d wager quite a bit that the one in his brain doesn’t match the gun.”   
  
“But if the door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?”   
  
“That’s your job to figure out.” John waved towards the bedroom. “Van Coon’s dead; he was murdered. I’ll write up the report by tomorrow. Seeing how you don’t need me anymore and this is supposed to be my day off, I’ll leave you to it.” Dimmock didn’t have time to reply before John was out of the flat. He stripped off the scrubs and left them with the technicians on his way out, making sure to give Sherlock enough time to slide underneath and attach himself to John’s street clothes instead. The alien’s clothes were still pooled on the floor in the storage closet, so John piled them in his arms and walked out like it was perfectly natural. No one questioned him.   
  
Once on the street, John couldn’t hold back a grin. That had been _brilliant._ Dimmock had pissed him off with the way he’d treated Sherlock, and the look on the man’s _face_ when John had explained Sherlock’s deductions to him – ah, it was wonderful. Sherlock was shifting restlessly against his shoulders, and it was fairly distracting, so John ducked into a back alley that was out of sight of the streets.   
  
Sherlock reformed himself and pulled his trousers on. “That was rather well-done, John,” he congratulated, sounding surprised. “You even managed to figure out the window. I admit: I’m impressed.” He swirled his coat on and led John back to the main road.   
  
“Yeah, well; it was figuring out that he was left-handed that was the hard part. I haven’t played charades in years. How did you know, by the way?” The statement had seemed completely baseless.   
  
“Oh, it was simple. Everything in his flat was set up for a left-handed man.” Sherlock ran through the list of evidence that he’d seen. It was impressive.   
  
“How do you even _notice_ all of that?” John asked at the end of the list, awed.   
  
“I merely observe.”   
  
_Yeah, in the same way that you ‘merely’ stretch your limbs. Good God._ He shook his head to clear it. “So Van Coon is dead; we’re obviously not going to get any information from him. Now what do we do?”   
  
The grin that stretched across Sherlock’s face was mildly terrifying. “Now,” he said, “we visit Mr. Sebastian Wilkes again. But first we stop at the flat!”

* * *

Sherlock’s coat draped over John and brushed against the floor as he nestled himself in an alcove by the entrance of an upscale restaurant in central London. The alien had tossed it over him earlier, stating the need for a disguise, before grabbing a truly horrifying ensemble from his room. It consisted of a long-sleeved, lime-green shirt advertising some boy band; safety-orange cargo trousers; and neon-pink gloves. John had found himself squinting against the sheer brightness of the clashing colors. “You’re not actually going to wear that, are you?” he’d questioned. _I don’t even want to ask why you had it in the first place._   
  
“Sebastian won’t answer my questions honestly if I come as myself,” Sherlock had informed him. “He hates me. He’s only called me in to help because he knows that I’m the best.”   
  
“Right.” He’d watched Sherlock shimmy into the tight clothing. “Sorry, why does that require you to dress like – _that?”_   
  
“Jeremy Portillo,” Sherlock had said, shifting his features to that of a young Spanish man with fair skin and rather lovely eyes. His voice had modulated to a lilting tenor with a slight accent. “Sebastian is still dating him – I saw a hint of his collar over his shirt. Jeremy is his Dom, you see. It’s all a very hush-hush relationship.”

“I see. … No, I don’t. You’re going to pretend to be Sebastian’s Dom?” John hadn’t been sure whether to be amused or appalled then, and as he watched Sherlock swagger into the restaurant where Sebastian was eating lunch with a group of coworkers he still wasn’t decided.  
  
He couldn’t hear what Sherlock said to catch Sebastian’s attention – and honestly, how had the man failed to notice him? He practically glowed! –but Sebastian was more than loud enough in his response to be heard from the door.  
  
 _“Jeremy!”_ he squeaked. “Er … Jeremy, how are you?” He coughed nervously and turned back to the table. “I’m sorry gentlemen, but I’m going to have to cut this short. Please, enjoy your lunches.” In a flurry of motion, Sebastian sprang from his seat, latched his hand over Sherlock’s sleeve and bustled him out of the restaurant. John determined that if he was going to be subjected to the eyesore that was Sherlock at the moment, he might as well enjoy the show. He followed discretely.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Sebastian hissed at Sherlock. “I thought we agreed to keep this relationship out of the public; those were my colleagues in there!”  
  
Ignoring Sebastian’s panicked outrage, Sherlock demanded, “Seb, what have you done? I had the police at my flat today, asking about you.”  
  
Sebastian choked and turned pale. “What? That’s – I haven’t done anything!”  
  
Sherlock steered the man into an alley, twitching his fingers to warn John to wait around the corner. “Obviously you’ve done something. They shouldn’t even have any connection between us.”  
  
“No, no; they shouldn’t,” Sebastian agreed. “Christ, what were they asking you?’  
  
“Something about an employee of yours – Van Doon, or something. Sebastian, were you cheating on me?” Sherlock’s voice had lowered dangerously.  
  
“Of course not! Jeremy, I’d never cheat on you; I’m still wearing your collar. See?” There was a pause where he must have pulled down the collar of his shirt to demonstrate. His tone had changed dramatically from the first few moments of their encounter. “I’m yours.”  
  
“So why were the police asking _me_ about one of your employees?”  
  
“I don’t know – I really don’t. I swear to you, there is nothing going on between us. He’s brilliant and a great trader – lost five mill and made it back in a week – and he worked in Asia for a while, so I personally chose him for the Hong Kong accounts. That’s it, though!” Sebastian was starting to sound almost hysterical, and John winced in grudging pity.  
  
“You liked him,” Sherlock said softly. John thought it sounded sort of like an epiphany.  
  
“He’s a good employee, but that’s all he is. You have to believe me, Jeremy.”  
  
Sherlock sighed before continuing gently. “I suppose I do, not that it really matters anymore. He’s dead. The police told me that it was murder.”  
  
Silence. Then, “What?”  
  
“The police were asking me if I could give an alibi for you – they seemed to think that you might have had some reason to kill him. I told them that you were at my house last night until you left for work at six. That would leave you just enough time to get to the bank, and your secretary can tell them that you were at work on time.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have – _didn’t_ – kill him. I – Christ, I was thinking about offering him a promotion.”  
  
“So who would have wanted him dead?”  
  
“I don’t know. We all make enemies.”  
  
“Don’t you dare get murdered, Seb. You’re _mine,_ remember?”  
  
“I remember. I promise. God, someone really killed him?”  
  
“Mm-hm. I’m so sorry.” They murmured to each other for a few more minutes; John couldn’t make out distinct words. Sherlock eventually said, “Seb, baby, I have to go. Please be careful.”  
  
“I will. I love you.”  
  
“I love you, too.”  
  
John heard footsteps approaching and whirled so that he was facing away from the alley. He took a few slow steps and waited for Sherlock to pass him before quickening his pace to follow. They made their way back to the flat, where Sherlock returned to his usual form and clothing. John sat in the armchair and dropped his head into his hands; when he had finished changing, Sherlock sat across from him.

“That didn’t go exactly as I’d planned,” the alien admitted. “I hadn’t realized that Sebastian was fond of Van Coon.”  
  
“I’d noticed.” They sat silently for a while to absorb the somber atmosphere before something occurred to John. “Back when the cabby was killing people, you were surprised that Jennifer Wilson could still be grieving for Rachel. You were more understanding of Sebastian, even though Van Coon isn’t a relative. Why?”  
  
Sherlock sighed and dropped his head back against the chair. John noticed that it hid the darkened parts of his body – hair and eyes – from view, which meant that Sherlock couldn’t see him. _A bit like closing his eyes, then._ “I suppose the first thing I should say is that my species doesn’t have stillborns. Ever. When we reproduce, the juvenile is always formed, and we can feel the child’s mind during the process. So the idea that a mother would consider an already-dead child as a human being and grieve accordingly is – strange, I suppose. It makes me wonder why she didn’t realize that the child was never alive.”  
  
“But the child was alive, Sherlock,” John explained. “She had started to grow and live inside Jennifer Wilson. She was a living human being, and she died before she ever had the chance to experience the world.”  
  
The alien was silent as he contemplated that. “I hadn’t realized that human mothers consider their children alive before birth. That changes a lot.”  
  
John closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair. “You see why your reaction was a ‘bit not good,’ now.”  
  
“Yes.”

* * *

When John staggered down the stairs the next morning, Sherlock greeted him with a cry. “Numbers, John; it’s numbers!”   
  
John rubbed his eyes to get the sleep out of them. “Sorry, what’s numbers?”   
  
“The message – the code. It’s the Suzhou numeral system. The symbols reminded me of the Chinese writing system, but I didn’t recognize the words. I researched written Chinese dialects last night while you were sleeping” – Sherlock gestured to John’s laptop, which was lying open on the desk – “and I found the symbols!”   
  
_Right. The message. It’s too early for this._ John yawned and nodded at Sherlock as he made his way to the kitchen to make some breakfast. “And what does it say?”   
  
“It says one-five, one. I assume that’s meant to read fifteen, one.”   
  
“Okay, and what does that mean?” _Today seems like a day for toast. As it’s the only edible food we have in our cupboards, that’s a good thing. I need to go shopping._   
  
“I have absolutely no idea. But that’s not all that happened while you were sleeping,” Sherlock added. “Listen to this: ‘Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police: An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night.’ The doors were locked; windows bolted from the inside. It looks almost exactly the same as what happened to Van Coon – he’s killed another one.”   
  
“We need to tell Dimmock about this.”   
  
“No, _I_ need to tell Dimmock about this. You have work today.”   
  
John shot him an incredulous glance from the kitchen doorway, waking up as he had his morning tea. “You are aware that I work in the Met, right? It’s sort of on my way.”   
  
“Yes, of course, but they’ll have already processed the body; you’ll have no reason to go to the apartment. I, on the other hand, can get Detective Inspector Dimmock to let me on the scene to examine the evidence while you’re working.”   
  
Ruthlessly squashing the twinge of hurt at being unneeded – at least it was better than the tear-out-his-heart pain he’d had before – John nodded. “Makes sense. Good luck with Dimmock, though; he doesn’t like you.”   
  
“I know,” Sherlock agreed. “That’s what makes it fun.” John wondered when the alien had started thinking of annoying the Met as fun.

* * *

They arrived at the Met several minutes before John’s shift started so that he could watch the show-down from the sidelines. He stood near the doorway as Sherlock stalked directly to DI Dimmock’s desk. The detective inspector glanced up, saw who it was, and scowled before smoothing his features. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Detective Inspector Dimmock. I have some thoughts that might be of value to you.” Without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ Sherlock spun Dimmock’s laptop around so that the screen faced him and started typing. Dimmock opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut him off, “Brian Lukis: Freelance journalist. He was murdered – in his flat, doors locked from the inside.” He spun the computer around so that Dimmock could see the screen. “And yet, you’ve got the paperwork on your desk to formally disagree with your medical examiner’s conclusion of murder.”  
  
 _Wait, what? He’s saying that it’s suicide?_ John saw red for a few seconds as he realized that the detective inspector had disregarded his report. Dimmock crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. Once again, though, Sherlock cut him off before he could get a word in.  
  
“Both men were killed by someone who can supposedly ‘walk through solid walls’; even you must see the connection. Do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just a city suicide?”  
  
“Now wait a minute,” Dimmock snarled. “I don’t know who you think you are, coming in here like this, but you have no right to question the findings of our investigation.” _No, that’s just your job, isn’t it?_ John forced his clenched fists to relax before he cut his palms with his nails.  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You have seen the ballistics report on Van Coon’s gun?”  
  
“Yes, but that’s not –”  
  
“Did the bullet match Van Coon’s gun?”  
  
“No,” Dimmock said grudgingly. He blinked. “Hang on; how did you know about that?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please. It was obvious that Van Coon was left-handed. He couldn’t have fired the shot that killed him; therefore, he was murdered. Two locked-door murders in two days, and the killer is still out there. Do you really want to keep deluding yourself that this is a suicide?” He planted his hands on the desk and loomed over Dimmock. “I’ve just handed you a murder inquiry. Give me five minutes in Lukis’s flat.”  
  
The detective inspector glared at Sherlock for a few seconds before averting his gaze. “Fine,” he grunted. John could have cheered at the disgruntled expression on his face. _Serves you right._ “Five minutes; no more. And don’t touch anything.”  
  
The alien smirked.

* * *

“Ah, John!”   
  
John looked up as he walked out of the Met at midday; several hours in the mortuary had gone a long way towards calming his ire at Dimmock. Sherlock was waving to him from halfway up the steps. “Sherlock,” he greeted. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”   
  
The two met at the top of the steps and continued down to street-level. “It’s your lunch break,” Sherlock reminded him. “I was wondering if you had any plans in place already?”   
  
“Not particularly. Why?”   
  
Sherlock pulled a book from inside his coat – which meant that he probably pulled it from inside _himself_ – and brandished it in front of John’s face. _‘South-East Asian Politics.’ Interesting._ “I found this at Lukis’s apartment. It had disturbed the other books on the stairs when he threw it down, and it was the only book that hadn’t been closed. I looked at the date inside of it; it was checked out of the West Kensington Library yesterday.”   
  
John stared at the book. “This could have been the last thing Lukis did before he died,” he realized, looking back to Sherlock. “Have you gone to the library yet?”   
  
“Of course not; I was waiting for you. Are you interested?”   
  
“I’ve got an hour. Let’s get moving.”   
  
It took them fifteen minutes to get to the library from the Met; John was glad because it meant that as long as they finished fairly quickly he’d be able to get some food before returning to his shift. The library itself was quite lovely, and although John had never been an avid reader he could certainly appreciate the modernized architecture. Sherlock didn’t hesitate in the lobby, instead leading John directly to the section where the book had been taken from. They perused the aisle, looking for something that could be even remotely construed as a clue.

While Sherlock started pulling out other copies of the book and flipping through them, John glanced at the opposite shelf. A flash of yellow behind the books caught his eye. “Sherlock,” he called, pulling the books out of the way. The symbols had been spray-painted here, as well.   
  
“Well done, John,” Sherlock complimented, peering over his shoulder. “We have our connection: Lukis saw the code, panicked, ran home and was killed. It’s just like Van Coon.”   
  
“But _why_ were they killed?”   
  
“Only the cipher can tell us.” After a few seconds, Sherlock straightened. “Well, we’ve got a little less than half-an-hour before you need to leave and head back to work; how do you feel about some lunch?”   
  
Letting the case fall to the back of his mind for the moment, John smiled and led the way out of the library. “I’m starved.”   
  
As they stepped out into the open air, Sherlock placed a hand on John’s arm to stop him. “How do you feel about some chicken pasta?” he asked, turning to follow a side street. John followed, bemused.   
  
“Chicken pasta sounds lovely, actually,” he admitted. Although he wasn’t familiar with the area, it certainly felt like they were going in a specific direction. “We’re not going to Angelo’s, are we?”   
  
“No,” the alien called back to him. “I’ve already been. Come on; there’s a park further up this way where you can eat.”   
  
“Eat what?” John mumbled, but there was no reply.   
  
It was a relatively small park with only a few benches and tables; at the moment, it was completely deserted save for the two of them and a few birds. John sat at one of the picnic tables and stared at Sherlock expectantly. If he was going to bring him to a park instead of a restaurant, he was going to provide the food, too.   
  
To John’s surprise, Sherlock did. The alien placed a hand in front of his chest and caught the take-away box that fell out. “It’s still warm,” he informed John, probably as a reaction to John’s gaping expression. “I’m an excellent insulator.”   
  
_Did he really just…?_ “You’ve got to be kidding me,” John said flatly. “You just pulled that out of your _chest,_ Sherlock. I’m pretty sure that breaks a few health regulations.”   
  
“I didn’t touch the food at all,” Sherlock assured him. “The food is exactly the same as it would be if Angelo had placed it in the box two seconds ago. Look.” He placed the box on the table and lifted the lid. The pasta did, indeed, look perfectly fine, and there was even a fork inside, but that didn’t change the fact that _it had just come out of Sherlock’s chest._ “I wasn’t sure how long it would take us to find whatever we were looking for at the library, so I brought food for you in case you didn’t have time to get lunch on the way back to work,” the alien explained.   
  
John made the mistake of examining Sherlock’s expression. While he had his eyebrows raised in earnest supplication, it was the slight blurring around Sherlock’s features – _He’s nervous._ – that did him in. “If I die of food poisoning, I’m haunting you for the rest of your life,” he informed Sherlock before picking up the fork and taking a bite. Despite its questionable transport, the pasta was warm and delicious. It almost made him think that dealing with Angelo’s enthusiasm would be worth going back to have some more.   
  
Almost.   
  
After John’s lunch, Sherlock escorted him back to the Met with about five minutes to spare and told him he’d probably be busy when John got off. “I need to get the advice of an expert,” he explained. “We may know what the symbols mean, but we don’t know what the cipher is. We’ll need to find more examples to work from.” John waved the explanation off and went back to work.

* * *

The minute hand on the clock had just moved to the twelve when the text came in. John finished putting away the last body on his list and tugged off his gloves so that he could answer the phone. It was a text from Sherlock.   
  
_Get the journalist’s planner, if he has one. Find out where he’s been in the last few days.  
-SH_   
  
Incredulous, John texted back.   
  
_You do realize that Dimmock is in charge of the collected evidence, right?_

A few seconds later, his phone buzzed in his hands.   
  
_I have confidence in your persuasive abilities.  
-SH_   
  
John sighed and shook his head in mild amusement before clearing his work space and heading through the building to Dimmock’s desk. The man was talking to someone on the phone, and he waved his hands emphatically as he tried to demonstrate his point. Based on the tone of voice and expression on his face, he was failing.   
  
Sherlock wanted him to get the journalist’s planner from a man who didn’t like them and was already in a bad mood? _Talk about asking for the impossible._ As he debated the merits of various approaches, Dimmock slammed the phone on the desk and ran his hands through his hair. John watched him pull a box towards him from the corner of the desk – the word ‘Lukis’ was clearly visible on the label. The detective inspector pulled out a small hide-bound journal and started flipping through it.   
  
_No way. It can’t be that easy._ Apparently it was; as John moved nearer, he identified a few dates and times hand-written in the book. It was Lukis’ planner – or the closest thing to it. He just had to convince Dimmock to hand it over. Right.   
  
Best to start with a polite request to feel out the situation. “Excuse me, sir,” John said, drawing Dimmock’s attention. “I was wondering if I could ask for a favor.” It galled him to indebt himself to this man, but Sherlock needed the journal.   
  
Dimmock closed the book and stared at John over the top. “What’s the favor?” he asked neutrally.   
  
“Would it be possible for me to borrow the dead journalist’s planner?” John motioned to the book. “I’ve got a theory, see, and I’d love to see if it pans out.”   
  
The DI hummed. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s evidence, you see, and I can’t just go about handing off evidence to anybody who asks. I do that, and the evidence gets compromised or tampered with – and that wouldn’t do at all, would it?” He tapped the book on the desk. “I’m afraid that you’ll just have to keep your theories to yourself, unless you can back them up with proof. We don’t work on hunches here.” To top it all off, Dimmock smirked at him.   
  
_If you’d give me that book, I’d have all the proof I’d need. At least, Sherlock would. Prick._ The dismissal effectively eliminated politeness as a feasible strategy: Dimmock was intent on blocking any attempt at getting the book. What did that leave him with? A memory of Army training popped into his head; despite the ridiculous scenario, John considered it. _Well, he had to go through a sort of boot camp, too, to be on the police force,_ John rationalized to himself. He straightened and squared his shoulders; in his best military commander voice, he demanded, “Hand over the diary, worm.”   
  
The suddenness of the personality change must have caught Dimmock off-guard: He froze with an extended arm and a shocked expression. John plucked the book out of his lax grip and grinned congenially. “Thank you!” he said in his most obnoxiously cheery voice. The detective inspector was still gaping at him when he turned and walked away – it was only as the doors closed behind him that he heard an outraged cry. John laughed. Okay, when had _he_ started thinking of annoying the Met as fun?

* * *

After John made his escape, he flipped through the planner and barely managed to catch the piece of paper that fell out. _A boarding pass to Dalian._ Lukis had gone to China shortly before he died; Van Coon worked the Hong Kong accounts, and the message was written in a Chinese numbering system. _Everything leads back to China._ He flipped to the day that Lukis had died before reconsidering and turning to the day before. There was an address scrawled in the box – “Soho,” John muttered. He sent a text to Sherlock and grabbed a bus.   
  
_Have Lukis’ journal. Am following his steps for the day that Van Coon died._   
  
The reply was short.   
  
_Talking to Van Coon’s secretary. Text me if you find anything.  
-SH_   
  
As it turned out, John didn’t need to text Sherlock anything: He’d been walking down the sidewalk towards the address when Sherlock appeared in front of him. John startled and raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died – whatever was hidden inside that case. I know he flew back from China and then came here; somewhere in this street. Somewhere near! But where?” The alien had darkened his skin pigment slightly to gather more data, John noticed.  
  
“That shop, over there,” John announced, pointing across the street. “Lukis came here, too – he wrote down the address.”  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock’s skin subtly shifted back to its usual near-luminescent pallor. “Well, then, I suppose we’d better take a look.”  
  
The Lucky Cat Emporium did not live up to its name; it was hardly useful. After poking around for a few minutes while Sherlock probably analyzed the Chinese shopkeeper – and everything really _was_ leading back to China – all John managed to do was confirm Sherlock’s knowledge of the number system. They left fairly quickly and stopped at a small café across the street, where Sherlock revealed that the two men had been smugglers – “They were using the Lucky Cat as the drop-off point. Van Coon was making money to cover his losses in trading and Lukis was funding his trips to China, where he wrote his articles.” – and that one of them had stolen something.  
  
“So they were both killed?” John asked, taking a sip of his tea. “That seems rather – well, wasteful, I suppose.”  
  
Sherlock grimaced. “It was a punishment. ‘Steal from us and we kill you.’ They wanted to give a message to anyone else working for them.” He glanced back to the Lucky Cat, then abruptly asked, “When was the last time that it rained?”  
  
“Ah, Monday, I think.” John gulped down the last of his drink as Sherlock stood up. “Why?”  
  
They crossed the street at an angle and stopped in front of someone’s flat. Sherlock knelt and ran his thumb over the damp phonebook lying against the doorframe. “Because this has been here since Monday.” He pressed the buzzer a few times – the plate read ‘Soo Lin Yao’ – but got no response. “Come on.”  
  
They went around to the back and Sherlock looked up at the windows. “That flat has been empty for three days, but the owner left the windows open. Something’s wrong.” He stretched his arms up to the windowsill on the first floor and glanced over his shoulder at John. “Coming?”  
  
“You can’t just break into some woman’s flat,” John balked. “That’s her home!”  
  
The alien blinked at him but kept his grip. “You didn’t protest to me doing the same at Van Coon’s apartment. What’s the difference?”  
  
“We had reason to suspect that Van Coon was up to something – this is just some woman we’ve never met.” He took a few steps forward and tugged at Sherlock’s coat. “Leave her privacy alone.”  
  
“But we do have reasonable suspicion. Something happened at least three days ago to prevent her from coming back to her flat. Think, John! Van Coon died two days ago. Besides, I caught a glimpse of some yellow paint on the side of the shop building, but it had been painted over recently. It would be clearly visible from this apartment; she’s got to be connected somehow.” Sherlock pried himself free of John’s grasp and pulled himself up to the windowsill. “I’ll let you in at the front door,” he promised before disappearing through the curtains.  
  
“Right, just like at Eddie Van Coon’s apartment: After you’ve already had a look around. Great, Sherlock,” John grumbled as he returned to the front. “Damn it.” _You shouldn’t trespass in the first place._ He rang the buzzer as soon as he got to the door, hoping it would remind Sherlock to let him in _before_ he started invading the woman’s privacy.  
  
Sherlock, of course, ignored him; John paced in front of the door and willed away the unease in his gut. As before, even though he knew Sherlock was incredibly resilient, he could not help but fret irrationally. _He’s just taking his time because he doesn’t want me to limit his examination. I should be angry, not worried._ “Sherlock, do you think you could let me in?” he called through the mail slot.

It took several minutes for Sherlock to finally open the door; by that time, John was halfway between frantic and furious. He tried to push it down as he looked past the alien’s shoulder to the interior of the apartment. Nothing looked overly disturbed, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock hadn’t still utterly violated Soo Lin Yao’s privacy.   
  
“We need to leave,” Sherlock said, pulling something from his coat pocket. It was an origami black flower – just like the one that he’d pulled from Van Coon’s mouth.   
  
John felt his heart stop. “What the bloody hell _happened?!”_ Was there a dead body inside the apartment even now? Had Soo Lin Yao been killed by the same smuggling ring?   
  
“The intruder was still in the apartment,” the alien explained, herding John away from the apartment and down the street. “He tried to strangle me. He was good: I couldn’t fight back without making it obvious that I am not human, so I pretended to pass out. I did get a look at his face, of course; he put the origami flower in my pocket while I was supposedly unconscious.”   
  
“Wait. Hold it; you just got in a fight with a murderer?” John whirled to face Sherlock, fighting to keep his voice down. “Damn it, Sherlock; this is exactly the sort of reason you shouldn’t lock me out! I could have helped!”   
  
“By doing what? Your revolver is still hidden in the flat, and the man was easily a good enough fighter to take even me down. You don’t have the advantage of not needing to breathe – you could have been killed.”   
  
All true, but it still rankled that Sherlock had left him outside and unable to help. “You still should have let me in.”   
  
Sherlock huffed and changed the subject. “Soo Lin Yao left here in a hurry three days ago. We need to find her.” He held out a piece of folded paper. “This was on the floor just inside the doorway. Look at the insignia inside: The National Antiquities Museum. We need to talk to this Andy.”

* * *

Andy Galbraith was an awkward man who was nevertheless eager to help however he could; his crush on Soo Lin Yao was painfully obvious from the way he talked about her. He took them through the museum to the storage vaults, where he assured them that Soo Lin would have taken the teapots just before leaving. Sherlock ignored the vaults and strode to a cloth-covered statue. He whipped the cloth away to reveal several symbols scrawled across the statue’s chest in the same yellow paint. “Dead man,” he murmured.   
  
“Dead man?” John asked, stepping closer. Andy followed him and stared at the defiled statue in shock.   
  
“Yes; it’s _Jiǎntizì:_ simplified Chinese. Someone threatened Soo Lin.”   
  
“I don’t understand,” Andy interjected. “Soo Lin was a nice girl; she loved her job and she was kind. Why would someone want to kill her?”   
  
“Because she knew something that she wasn’t supposed to.” Sherlock turned and walked back the way they’d come. “There’s nothing else to find here.”   
  
John stayed just long enough to take Andy’s business card with a promise to call him if they needed anything else before he hurried after Sherlock. It was dark by the time they exited, but someone was waiting for Sherlock when they walked down the steps. “I found something you’ll like,” the boy said.   
  
“Sorry, who are you?” John asked, confused. He turned to Sherlock. “Who is he?” The teen looked like nothing more than a punk out after hours.   
  
“My expert,” Sherlock explained, grinning. “I asked him about the paint used for the messages. You found more, then?”   
  
“Yeah,” the boy panted. “Out by the railway tracks. Come on; I’ll show you.”   
  
The boy – Raz, he introduced himself – led them to the South Bank below the Hayward gallery. There was a bit of yellow paint peeking out from beneath on of the millions of pieces of graffiti under the bridge; Raz identified it as exactly the same paint that was used on the other messages. “There was more,” he told them, “but someone covered it over while I went to get you.”   
  
“Excellent,” Sherlock breathed. “There’s got to be more somewhere around here. John, go look by the railway lines; I’ll head south. It’s got to be here!” He pulled a torch out of his coat and handed it to John.   
  
“Right.” Raz had already disappeared by the time John turned around. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”

“Same. Now go!”  
  
John went. He was very thankful that Sherlock had been carrying a torch, odd though it had been: Night had fallen, and it was almost impossible to see anything in the darkness. He almost missed the splash of yellow paint on the railway tracks, but when he looked up he certainly noticed the wall of writing.  
  
Fingers fumbling in excitement, he barely managed to pull his cellular from his pocket. “Damn,” he muttered, realizing that he didn’t have any signal. _I’ll have to chase Sherlock, then._ Just in case he couldn’t find the place again, he took a picture with his phone before tucking it back into his trousers. _He said he would head south; he can’t have gotten too far._  
  
The alien raised his eyebrows in question when John ran up, but followed him back to the site easily enough. He did spare a moment to ask why John hadn’t just called him, but he didn’t speak again after John explained. When they returned to the wall, however, there was nothing there.  
  
“I don’t understand,” John muttered. “It was here, not ten minutes ago – I saw it. A whole wall of graffiti!” The paint glistened freshly in the light of his torch. _Someone came and painted over it._  
  
“Someone doesn’t want me to see it,” Sherlock growled, tearing off his gloves. Without warning, he lunged at John and wrapped his hands around John’s face.  
  
“Sherlock, what – ?” The strange texture was jarring for its unexpected presence.  
  
“Shh! John, concentrate; I need you to concentrate.” The alien started spinning them around in a bizarre parody of a dance. “Try to picture what you saw.” Sherlock’s hands had flattened and spread so that they covered almost all of John’s head. “Can you picture it?”  
  
“Yeah,” John assured him, confused.  
  
Sherlock pressed lightly against his skull, almost as if he were trying to burrow inside. “Can you remember it? Can you remember the pattern?” There was a light tremor against his temples as Sherlock got frustrated, but it subsided quickly.  
  
“Yes. Sherlock, don’t worry!”  
  
The alien ignored him. “How well can you remember it? Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate.” There was another small ripple that Sherlock suppressed.  
  
“Don’t worry, I’ve got all of it.” John dug a hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone, flipping through to the image. “I took a photograph.”  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock backed off. “Wonderful. Good thinking.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks. Now what the hell was that all about?” _They communicate through contact-based telepathy,_ he remembered. “Were you trying to read my mind?”  
  
At least Sherlock had the decency to look embarrassed. “It was instinctive,” he explained. “Sorry.”  
  
“No,” John denied slowly. “It’s fine.” _It’s not really fair to you that you have to speak in my language all the time and I can’t speak in yours._ “Did it work? Even a little bit?”  
  
He got a scrutinizing stare as Sherlock decided how to answer. “Somewhat,” the alien admitted hesitantly. “I could just barely tell that you were confused, but I couldn’t feel anything further than that. I didn’t see anything at all.”  
  
“Ah.” _Then again, it wouldn’t be that hard to convince himself that he was sensing something he wasn’t. Wishful thinking can be a powerful hallucinogen._ John tried not to be disappointed. “Well, then,” he said briskly, “we have our cipher. Shall we?”  
  
Sherlock smiled at him. “Let’s.”

* * *

At the flat, Sherlock determined that the smuggler ring was trying to get whatever had been stolen back and they wouldn’t be able to crack the cipher without help. John phoned Andy and asked him to meet with them – it wasn’t so late yet that the man had already gone to sleep – and for lack of better options, they went back to the museum to search for more clues. Unfortunately, Andy didn’t know anything more, but Sherlock noticed that two of the teapots in the display case were shining when only one had when they’d been there earlier.   
  
“She never left,” the alien muttered.   
  
The three of them hid themselves and hoped for Soo Lin to reappear; it took less than half an hour. She took one of the pots and left the room – “She’ll be going to the restoration room,” Andy whispered.   
  
“Then let’s go, too.”

Andy and John stayed back while Sherlock approached Soo Lin. Andy gasped quietly and lurched forward when she dropped the teapot, but Sherlock caught it before it hit the ground. John and Sherlock introduced themselves and took the seats across from her; Andy sat beside her and stared as if she would disappear again if he blinked.   
  
“You know something about the smuggling ring,” Sherlock began. “That’s why they’re after you. That’s why you’re hiding.”   
  
“Yes,” she acknowledged. With a glance at Andy, she began her story. “When I was a girl in China, my elder brother convinced me that we should join a triad to keep ourselves safe – to keep ourselves alive. We were orphans on the streets, and we were starving. I believed him. We worked for the Black Lotus: I remained a forty-nine – a low-level smuggler – while I was there, but my brother advanced to a four twenty-six. He is in charge of many of the offensive and defensive actions of the triad.” Soo Lin pulled off her shoe; there was a tattoo on her ankle. “This is the mark of the Black Lotus. All of us who smuggle for them bear it.”   
  
“But you got out,” John said.   
  
She slipped her shoe back on. “By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I escaped that life and stowed away on a ship to England. I learned the language and I got a job at the museum; I changed my name. It was dangerous for me to stay in Soho, but I thought that no one would recognize me. I thought that after five years, they might have forgotten me.   
  
“A week ago, one of the Black Lotus members came to my flat and asked for my help. They wanted me to track down something that was stolen. I refused.”   
  
“Do you know what they were looking for?” Sherlock pressed.   
  
“No; I told him to leave and that I wanted nothing more to do with that life. I told him to stay away from me. He warned me I would be labeled a twenty-five: A traitor. That my brother himself had told him where to find me. I didn’t believe him; why would the Black Lotus care about me after so long? The message on the statue was waiting for me when I arrived the next morning.”   
  
Andy scooted closer to her and placed his hand over hers. She pulled away.   
  
Sherlock pulled the photograph of the wall of graffiti from his pocket and placed it in front of her. “Can you decipher these?” he asked.   
  
Soo Lin examined it. “These are numbers – the Black Lotus uses a cipher system of books. The first number is a page number, and the second is the word on the page.”   
  
“So you can decipher it?” John asked.   
  
“No.” She shook her head and passed it back. “They change the book every three months. I have no way of knowing which one it is now.”   
  
The lights cut out before anyone could reply. Soo Lin glanced up, eyes wide. “They’re here,” she gasped. “They’ve come for me.”   
  
While John’s heart pumped adrenaline through his veins, Sherlock shot out of the room and back to the main rooms. “Sherlock – _Sherlock!”_ John hissed at him, but the door had already closed behind him. He ushered the two museum employees into a small alcove in the room. “Get over here; stay here,” he ordered. Andy was nearly hyperventilating, and his eyes seemed to fill his face. _Damn you, Sherlock!_   
  
Past their quick breathing, John heard the distinctive sound of gunfire. _Sherlock!_ He had instinctively pushed himself up and was half-way to the door before rationality kicked in. _Bullets don’t hurt him; he’ll be fine. Soo Lin is the one they’re after, and if they come in here they’ll almost certainly kill Andy, too._ He hesitated in the middle of the room, heart urging him to go to Sherlock and mind dragging him back to the civilians. _You’re of no use to Sherlock right now: You left your gun at home – stupid! – and you’ll just get yourself shot. Stay with the civilians!_ There were two more shots, and he took another step towards the door before he could stop himself.   
  
“Doctor Watson,” Soo Lin called from behind him. Her even tones surprised him into looking at her. “They’re coming here. We need to escape. I can get us out.”   
  
“But what about Sherlock?”

“There were three shots fired. Unless your friend is carrying a gun, he’s fine.” At John’s incredulous stare, she explained, “That is a trained assassin. If he hasn’t hit him yet, he’s not trying to.”  
  
It wasn’t necessarily true, but the point was the same: Sherlock wasn’t really in danger. John took a deep breath and forced down the irrational part of him that was screaming to go and save him. “Alright. Lead the way.”  
  
Soo Lin grabbed Andy’s arm and dragged him after her. “I’ve been hiding in the ventilation shafts of the museum – it’s a network of tunnels that we can use to escape. Stay close and be quiet.” John lifted her on his shoulders so that she could remove the cover to the air vent. She pulled herself up and placed the cover beside her to put back later. John boosted Andy, who grabbed Soo Lin’s arm to haul himself up, and the two of them helped John in. He reaffixed the metal grill while Soo Lin squeezed past Andy to lead them.  
  
“Remember: Be as quiet as you can,” Soo Lin warned them before crawling through the tunnels. Every sound was amplified in the metal tubing, and John struggled to listen past the pounding pulse in his ears. Occasionally, another gunshot would draw his attention, and he would pray that Sherlock was okay. Eventually the shots stopped coming, and John wasn’t sure if it was worse than knowing that Sherlock was still alive to be shot at. _Maybe he can take one or two bullets,_ he thought, remembering Afghanistan, _but what if six or eight can take him down?_ Knowing that Sherlock could withstand gunfire, John wondered if his fear for Sherlock’s safety had more to do with his desire to be of use to Sherlock than an actual fear for Sherlock’s life.  
  
After several minutes of nerve-wracking sneaking, Soo Lin shoved another grill out of its place and squirmed out of the vents. Andy and John crawled out, and John was surprised to find himself back near the front entrance to the museum. “The security guards will have heard the gunshots and called the police; they’ll be here soon,” she told them. “The Black Lotus has given up for tonight.”  
  
“Right,” John muttered, bringing his heart rate back under control. “So we just have to wait here for the police?” _Where are you, Sherlock?_  
  
“No; it’s entirely possible that they’ve infiltrated the police. We need to leave. My apartment isn’t safe anymore, and they know about my hiding place in the museum, now. Do you have anywhere safe we can go to?”  
  
Andy stared at Soo Lin. “Are you joking? We have to go to the police!”  
  
“Did you not hear me?” Soo Lin asked sharply. “There may be operatives in the police; we can’t trust them.” She shook her head and turned to John. “What about you?”  
  
“My flat should be at least somewhat safe,” he offered. “It’s in a crowded neighborhood, at least.”  
  
“It’s better than nothing,” she agreed. “We should take a cab, if one of you can pay the fare.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” John said, pulling out his phone. “Let me text Sherlock first.” He hadn’t heard anything in the last few minutes, and while the open space was making his nerves itch, making sure that Sherlock was alright was more important.  
  
 _We’re alive. Where are you?_  
  
They’d gotten a cab – the driver had raised an eyebrow at their dusty appearances, but hadn’t said anything – and were several streets away before the reply came through.  
  
 _Prove that you’re John, first.  
-SH_  
  
It was a valid point; if they’d been captured or killed, the Black Lotus could have used his phone to lure Sherlock back.  
  
 _You can’t eat me. Prove that you’re Sherlock.  
  
I’m a doctor. I’m hidden in the restoration room. Police are starting to show up. You?  
-SH  
  
On our way back to Baker Street. Meet us there?  
  
I’m calling Mycroft. I’ll be there when you arrive.  
-SH_  
  
For the first time since Sherlock had run out of the room, John felt his gut stop twisting on itself.

* * *

There were two men in the flat when they walked in; John had a moment of utter panic before he recognized the second one as Mycroft. Soo Lin tensed beside him.

“Sherlock called me,” Mycroft told them. He turned to focus on Soo Lin. “He explained the situation. I have the means to put you into protection, should you so desire it. I can guarantee that the Black Lotus will never find you.”  
  
“Who are you, to promise me that?” she challenged, the shock of such an abrupt and life-changing offer from a total stranger clear on her face.  
  
“He’s my brother,” Sherlock interjected. “He works for the government, and he’s telling the truth.”  
  
While Soo Lin struggled to take in the sudden shift in her circumstances, John went to the kitchen to make tea for everyone; it would help sooth their nerves. “Sherlock, you did lock all of the windows and doors, right?”  
  
“Of course.” The alien sounded affronted that John could think less of him.  
  
“Right.” The sitting room was largely silent while John waited for the kettle.  
  
“They were trying to kill you,” he heard Andy whisper a few minutes later. “They would have killed you.”  
  
“Yes,” Soo Lin said. “I told you when you asked me out that you wouldn’t like me very much.” She sounded defeated.  
  
John finished with the tea and brought it back into the sitting room. Andy had taken a seat on the couch. Soo Lin had collapsed into a chair and buried her hands in her hair; John felt a pang of pity for the strong, beautiful woman who’d had so much torn from her. Mycroft was pretending to stare at nothing, and Sherlock had perched on the edge of the desk. John set the tray of tea on the coffee table and leaned against the desk beside Sherlock; Andy and Soo Lin each took a cup and murmured thanks.  
  
Andy took a sip of tea and bent closer to Soo Lin. “But you got away. You got away in China, and you got away in the museum, and you got us away, too.” Andy was still staring at Soo Lin, and his gaze became more intent. “You’re incredible.” John had to agree with his assessment; her actions in the museum had been incredibly impressive from someone without military training.  
  
Soo Lin looked up, and John politely averted his eyes from her raw expression. “I’m just an ex-smuggler,” she denied.  
  
“You’re much more than that. You’re smart and beautiful and brave; you’re interesting and mysterious. You told me that sometimes you have to look hard at something to see its value. I hadn’t really been looking at _you_ before.” Andy was blushing strongly. “And I should stop talking now.”  
  
While Soo Lin stared at Andy, Mycroft cleared his throat and glanced at his mobile phone. “If you’re interested in my offer, Miss Soo Lin Yao, the optimum time for you to leave is approaching. You need to make a decision.”  
  
“I’ve made a life for myself here,” she murmured to herself, turning her gaze back to the cup of tea. “I built it with no one to help me.” She sighed and took a sip of tea. “But I have to leave it behind, one way or another. There is no other choice. I accept your offer.”  
  
Andy’s face fell. “I’m never going to see you again, am I?” he asked. “You’ll be in protection – it’ll be too dangerous for you to contact me.” Soo Lin nodded. He walked over so that he knelt before her, placing both their teacups on the coffee table.  
  
John looked away when Andy took Soo Lin’s hands in his own, a sudden flame of envy rising in his chest. _He loves her and he’s going to lose her,_ he thought to himself. _What’s so enviable about that?_ Sherlock turned to look at him, head tilted curiously, and John shook his head before looking back at the couple. _‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’_  
  
Andy brought Soo Lin’s hands to his lips and kissed them, mindless of their audience. “Stay safe,” he urged her. “I hope you find happiness, wherever you go.”  
  
Soo Lin nodded to him and kissed his forehead with a small smile. “You do the same.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “I should have had that drink with you.”  
  
Mycroft waved a farewell to John and Sherlock, and then they were gone. Andy stayed for a few minutes more before awkwardly excusing himself with a last “Thank you.” When the flat had fallen silent again, John exchanged a glance with Sherlock before yawning. The adrenaline crash, combined with the charged emotional atmosphere, had left him exhausted.

“You have questions about what happened between Andy and Soo Lin, don’t you?” John prompted. It was inevitable; the scene had been so intimate that Sherlock would have certainly questioned a few behaviours.  
  
“Yes, but it’s not important now. Go to sleep,” Sherlock told him. “Mycroft will look into the smuggling ring when he gets home, and I have to go talk to DI Dimmock. You can rest.”  
  
John didn’t reply, eyes already starting to drift shut. He ran a hand over Sherlock’s hair on his way to the stairs, and the alien smiled at him.  
  
He didn’t even bother to undress before dropping into the bed.

* * *

The sounds of a mild argument woke John just an hour later. He rolled out of bed and listened at the door until he could identify the voices: Sherlock and Dimmock. What was DI Dimmock doing in their flat? With half-asleep thoughts of another drugs bust terrorizing his mind, John made his way down the stairs to the sitting room.   
  
_Boxes,_ John noted. _Lots of boxes._ The floor space of the room had been almost completely taken over with police evidence boxes; as he watched, a constable brought in another and stacked it atop an already towering pile. In the middle of the organized chaos, Sherlock and Dimmock were facing off.   
  
“I’ve done what you asked; I’ve broken almost every rule we have! This is still my investigation, and I’m entitled to know what you’re looking for.” Dimmock looked furious.   
  
Sherlock, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. “I’m looking for a book, of course. I’ve read everything in my bookcases, so I decided to branch out.”   
  
John couldn’t help but chuckle at Sherlock’s blasé tone. It drew Dimmock’s attention, and the detective inspector suddenly went very still. “Oh, now I see,” he drawled, turning back to Sherlock. “That’s how you knew about the ballistics report – you had your little boyfriend feeding you information.” Before Sherlock could retort, he spun and glared at John. “I told you that I didn’t want civilians mucking up my investigations; you deliberately disobeyed my orders and leaked information on an ongoing murder case. I’ll have you fired for this.”   
  
“Really?” John asked, willing his heart to stop pounding. “I don’t think you have the authority for that, Detective Inspector Dimmock; especially as you’ve clearly let him on the case as well. Besides, I haven’t told him anything about the case. He figured it all out himself. Just face the facts: Sherlock’s brilliant, and we need him.” As an afterthought, he added, “And I’m not his boyfriend.”   
  
“You really expect me to believe that he pieced it all together on his own?” Dimmock sneered.   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You didn’t have a problem with it a few minutes ago,” he commented mildly. “In fact, you were eager for me to explain my thoughts up to this point. As you’ve clearly not earned them, I’ll thank you to hand over the papers you took from the museum and leave us in peace.”   
  
The detective inspector swelled with apoplectic fury before he abruptly deflated. “Here,” he muttered, digging an evidence bag from his coat pocket. It held the photograph of the graffiti. “Is there anything else I can do? To assist you?” he asked with bitter sarcasm.   
  
The alien grinned and started pulling books from the boxes. “Some silence would be marvelous. Good evening.”   
  
Dimmock strode out of the room and down the stairs. A few minutes later, John heard the police cars driving away. “It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for him,” he commented. _But then again, he was such a bastard to Sherlock in the first place that I really can’t be arsed._ He shook his head and paused to yawn widely.   
  
“You should go back to sleep,” Sherlock commented. “You’ve got work in the morning.” As he spoke, he formed several limbs to check multiple books at a time. Even so, John could see that it would take Sherlock a few days to go through them all.   
  
“I’m too awake now,” John denied, grabbing a stack of books and sitting at the desk. “I’ll help you with this for a while until I can fall asleep again."

Sherlock favored him with a surprised glance before smiling. It didn’t take more than twenty books for John’s eyes to slide shut; when he woke up the next morning, he was lying on the couch with a blanket pulled up over his chin and Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his wrist.   


* * *

John wished he could have said he was surprised when Dimmock showed up at the mortuary. He ignored him until he finished his examination and made the man wait while he cleaned his instruments. When he finally turned and raised his eyebrow, Dimmock was glowering at him. “Yes?”   
  
“Did it pan out?”   
  
_Is he talking about the books? We just got them last night._ “Sorry?”   
  
“Your lead,” Dimmock clarified smarmily. “Did it pan out?”   
  
John remembered his original excuse for borrowing Lukis’s journal and smiled infuriatingly. “Oh, that. No, it was a dead end. You can take it back now.” He slipped off his latex gloves and dug through his bag for the book.   
  
Dimmock took it back without comment, but he hesitated at the door before turning to face John with a neutral expression. “Your friend,” he began.   
  
When nothing else came, John prompted, “My friend?”   
  
“Your friend is a bit – different – isn’t he? He sees things that we don’t. That’s why Lestrade lets him in on cases. That’s why _I_ let him in.”   
  
It would have been so easy to take offense at that, but Dimmock had said it thoughtfully. He sounded and looked confused. John decided to take pity and accept the words as a peace offering. “Sherlock is Sherlock,” he agreed. “There’s no one on Earth who can compare.”   
  
The DI stared at him for a few moments before nodding. “I suppose you’re right about that.” With that, he turned and walked out the door.   
  
The conversation had been a bit surreal, but John shook his head to dispel it and grabbed a fresh set of gloves before turning to the next corpse.

* * *

Thankfully, John remembered that there was almost nothing to eat in the flat before he got on the tube to head home. He sent a text to Sherlock – _Stopping for groceries on my way home._ – and headed for the nearest Tesco’s. Halfway through his shopping, he turned a corner without paying attention and ran into a woman going the other direction. She dropped her groceries and barely managed to catch herself.   
  
“Pardon me; I’m so sorry!” John exclaimed, bending down to help her gather her shopping. “I didn’t see you there.”   
  
“It’s alright,” she replied with a small smile. “I wasn’t paying much attention, either.”   
  
After he’d helped her pick up her shopping, John paused as recognition hit. “Hang on, I know you.” He peered at her face before placing it. “You’re the doctor!”   
  
She blinked at him, clearly surprised. “I am a doctor. I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize you – are you one of my patients?”   
  
John shook his head and grinned. “No, I came to the hospital for an interview.” He winced. “About two months ago. You gave me your number.”   
  
“Oh!” She smiled at him. “Now I recognize you; you’re the Army doctor. John Something-or-other.” She balanced her groceries to shake his hand.   
  
“Watson. I remember that your first and last name started with the same letter, but I don’t remember what it was.”   
  
“Sarah Sawyer. How are you? You look much better than you did when I last saw you.”   
  
“I’m doing great; I got a job as a forensic medical examiner with the Met, partially thanks to you, in fact. Not too exciting, but my flatmate more than makes up for it.”   
  
“Is that so? I’m glad it’s working out for you. I admit that I was a bit disappointed when you never called.” Sarah smiled to neutralize any insult.   
  
In all honesty, John had forgotten that he’d had her number almost as soon as he’d entered it into his phone. The Met had thoroughly distracted him from the hospital, and then he’d gotten Sherlock back in his life. It hadn’t seemed so important, then. Actually, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t been on a date since Sherrinford showed up in Afghanistan; he’d been too busy with the alien while he’d been there, and then he’d found himself unable to really connect with anyone after Sherrinford had left.

He remembered the feeling of envy while watching Soo Lin and Andy, and it seemed strange that “Three-Continents Watson” had been so effectively neutered without him even realizing it. _And why shouldn’t I go on dates again? Sherlock can take care of himself now – he knows how to act human; I don’t need to protect him anymore. He’ll be busy with those books all day and probably all night before he finds a match._ John looked at Sarah’s smile and felt the stirrings of attraction. _There’s no reason that I can’t go out and have a nice time tonight,_ he reasoned against the guilty clench of his heart.   
  
The whole argument would be invalidated if she wasn’t interested, anyway. “I got a bit distracted with life,” he admitted. “If you’re not busy tonight, though, there’s a new movie playing in the cinema.”   
  
Sarah raised an eyebrow and canted her hip to the side. “You don’t call me for two months, and then you just ask me on a date? Don’t you think you’re being a bit overly optimistic?” She was smiling despite her words; John took it as a good sign and layered on the charm.   
  
“Oh, sorry,” he said, pretending to look distracted. “You just reminded me that I needed to make a phone call. Excuse me.” He pulled out his phone and found the number in his contacts list. A few seconds later, a cheery ring tone sounded from Sarah’s pocket.   
  
Sarah glanced at it in surprise before laughing and answering it. “Hello?”   
  
Straight-faced, John said, “Hello, Doctor Sawyer; this is John Watson. We met a couple of months ago. I know it’s a bit last-minute, but I was wondering if you’d be interested in going to the cinema with me tonight.”   
  
“I don’t usually go on dates with guys who blow me off,” she teased, still giggling. “Bad for the self-image, you know?”   
  
“Oh, of course; totally understandable. I _did_ go through all the effort of calling you, though, so maybe you could make an exception just this once?” John winked, making her laugh.   
  
She pretended to think about it for a few seconds before nodding. “I suppose I can do that – just this once, mind you. When and where?”   
  
“I can pick you up at your house, if you’d like. I’ll check movie times and give you a call; if we leave by six-thirty we can probably stop and get dinner before the showing.”   
  
“Ooh, dinner _and_ a show? You drive a hard bargain, Watson. I’ll see you at six-thirty.”   
  
“Excellent; I’ll give you a call later, and we’ll work out the details. Until then!”   
  
They hung up their phones, Sarah still grinning. “That was pretty good, Watson,” she admitted. “Very smooth. If you’ll excuse me, though, I need to get going or I won’t be ready for my date tonight.”   
  
“No problem. I should be home in a half-hour; I’ll call you as soon as I have the show time.” With a last grin at each other, they parted ways and finished their shopping. But as triumphant as he felt in pulling it off, John didn’t feel as excited as he thought he should – that clenching in his gut wouldn’t go away.

* * *

Sherlock was still buried in books when John got home, but one of his limbs had grabbed his cellular and was busy texting. John stepped around boxes, books, and tentacles alike to reach the kitchen, where he put the groceries away. “How’s the search going, then?” he asked when he returned.   
  
The alien snapped the phone shut and reformed as a humanoid. “I haven’t found the right book yet,” he said, “but Mycroft just texted to tell us that Soo Lin slipped his surveillance. She left a thank-you note for his trouble but said that she preferred to do things independently.”   
  
John had to admit that the girl had guts. _And some serious skill, if she managed to evade Mycroft._ “Good on her, I suppose.”   
  
Humming in agreement, Sherlock moved through the flat to grab his coat. “Mycroft also informed me that the Yellow Dragon Circus is in London for one night only; it’s the perfect cover for the Black Lotus, and he mentioned that some of their past showings have coincided suspiciously with certain other criminal activities. I called in and bought tickets.” The alien stood by the door and stared at John expectantly. “Why are you just standing there? The show starts in less than an hour. Let’s go!”

The clenching sensation in John’s stomach ratcheted up. “Actually, I made plans already,” John said apologetically. “I’ve got a date.”   
  
Sherlock blinked at him, face falling flat. “Oh.” John winced at the complete and utter lack of emotion in the tone. “You could take your date with us, I suppose; I’m sure I could call in and order an extra ticket.”   
  
“I told her we would go to the cinema,” he declined. “And I’m not going to take her to what amounts to a stake-out.” He shrugged and tried to smile. “Sorry.”   
  
“Right.” Sherlock straightened in the doorway. “I’ll leave you the flat for the night, then; I can spend the night at Mycroft’s if I need to.” He gave a theatric humanoid shudder, and the attempt at humor was almost enough to ease John’s guilt. “Have fun with your date.”   
  
John was left staring at the empty doorway, trying to convince himself to look up show times for the cinema. He had a date, damn it; he shouldn’t feel bad for accidentally stepping on Sherlock’s plans. The alien hadn’t given him any warning, so how was he supposed to know to keep his evening free? It wasn’t as if he was going to wait on Sherlock’s beck and call.   
  
Still, it took him several minutes to tear his gaze away from the door and open his laptop.

* * *

Sarah agreed to grab some pasta on the way to the cinema, and John picked her up without a problem. Everything was in easy walking distance, so they traded their funniest doctoring stories as they strolled from the bistro through London. “It was so hard to not laugh in the man’s face – I mean, really, a carrot? What was he thinking?” Sarah giggled.   
  
John’s cellular buzzed in his pocket, and he excused himself to glance at it. He’d gotten a text from Sherlock.   
  
_They’re letting us into the building now. Strong Asian theme in exterior decorations – only to be expected for a Chinese circus.  
-SH_   
  
Eyebrow raised at the odd message, John slipped the phone back in his pocket and returned his attention to Sarah. “Sorry; my flatmate texted me. It wasn’t important.”   
  
“Oh, you’ve got a flatmate? What’s he like?”   
  
“Eccentric,” John decided. “He’s a genius, but sometimes he kind of misses the point. He’s gone to a circus tonight and said he was planning to spend the night at a relative’s house afterward,” he assured her. She nodded and turned the conversation to a new topic that lasted until they reached the cinema.   
  
Sherlock texted him while John was collecting their tickets and twice more while they were waiting in line for concessions. He seemed determined to give him a play-by-play description of the circus. John replied after the fifth text, hoping his impatience would be conveyed through the hinting.   
  
_That’s nice, Sherlock. I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it tomorrow._   
  
That only seemed to spur Sherlock further: The next three texts came within two minutes of each other. John tried to ignore them as they picked their seats and the movie started, but each buzz drew Sarah’s attention away from the movie and to his pocket. “Sorry,” he grimaced. “I’m sure he’ll stop in a few minutes.”   
  
“Hmm,” Sarah hummed, turning back to the movie. John’s phone was blessedly silent for another ten minutes before Sherlock sent the next one.   
  
Hissing oaths at Sherlock under his breath, John dug out his phone and glanced at the last message – _The performers are acrobatic; that fits with the ability to scale walls. –SH_ – before pressing the button to power it down. He settled back in the chair and draped his arm over Sarah’s shoulders, grabbing a handful of popcorn with the other hand. He saw her smile out of the corner of his eye, and she snuggled back against his inner elbow.   
  
Without the distraction of constant updates, John was able to forget about Sherlock for a while and enjoy the movie; it wasn’t as enjoyable as Sarah’s hand on his thigh, of course. His earlier reluctance had all but disappeared, and after the movie they decided to head back to John’s flat and have a few drinks. John mentioned that they would have to stop and buy them on the way, and Sarah giggled.   
  
“That’s fine; we’ll get to choose a drink that we both like, then.” She smiled at him.

“I do have to warn you about the state of our flat, though,” John added. “It’s a bit of a mess right now – Sherlock’s in the middle of a case, and his things are rather spread out. My room is pretty clean.”  
  
“We’ll just have to spend most of our time in there, I suppose,” Sarah agreed with a saucy wink. “Is your bed comfortable, at least?”  
  
“It’s almost perfect,” he purred; “just a bit chilly at night.”  
  
“I think I can fix that up.” They grabbed a ₤12 bottle of Bordeaux and made it back to the flat with little fuss, though Sarah stopped and stared at the clutter in the sitting room for a moment before John ushered her into the kitchen to pour the drinks. “You weren’t kidding about the mess,” she said, sounding almost awed. “I feel like I should have brought a Hazmat suit.”  
  
“It’s not that bad,” John corrected her, feeling a return of his guilt for ditching Sherlock. “It’s more clutter than anything.” He’d just placed the shopping bag on the counter when a knock sounded on the front door. _Who would be calling at this hour?_ he wondered. “Excuse me for a moment, please.”  
  
A stranger was standing on the stoop when John opened the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.  
  
The man didn’t even bother to reply before pulling a revolver and slamming it into the side of John’s head.

* * *

When John came to, someone was tying his hands together behind the back of a chair. He groaned and forced his eyes open; between the flickering firelight and the way his vision was swimming, he could barely make out the woman in black standing in front of him. A muffled gasp drew his attention to his left, where Sarah was similarly bound. Tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes to the gag in her mouth. _What the hell?_ he wondered, dazed.   
  
“Ah, you’re awake. Excellent timing,” the other woman said. John blinked at her in confusion as he noticed that she was holding his phone and reading something from the screen. “It’s lucky that we got to you when we did; your friend had figured us out. No matter: We have what we need. Smile for the camera, Doctor Watson.”   
  
There was a mechanical whir as his phone took the picture. “Sorry, who are you?” His tongue felt swollen in his mouth, so he swallowed a few times.   
  
“I am Shan,” the woman said. “Dragon Head of the Black Lotus. You and your pretty lady-friend are going to be our guests while we negotiate with Mister Sherlock Holmes.” She typed in a text message and turned the phone so that John could see before she sent it.   
  
_We have your friend and his pretty girlfriend. You can find what we seek. Where is the Empress’ pin?_   
  
Attached was the photo of John and Sarah tied to chairs. A man was looming behind them, gun pointed towards Sarah’s head. John swallowed convulsively and looked up at Shan, who stared back. “If your friend does not help us, you and your girlfriend will die,” she told him. She pressed the send button.   
  
Sarah let out a terrified whimper, and John forced himself to focus. “We don’t know where the pin is,” he told Shan evenly. “We didn’t even know that it was a pin that had been stolen.” His vision was starting to swirl again; he blinked until it cleared.   
  
“For your sakes, I hope that is not true.” Shan stood and walked away, barking something in sharp Chinese to her subordinate. The man behind John dropped a piece of fabric over his mouth and tied it back as a gag. John tested the strength of the rope holding his hands back and determined that he wouldn’t be able to escape without severely damaging his wrists. _I can’t talk; I can’t move; I think I have a concussion. There’s nothing to do but wait. Come on, Sherlock._   
  
After a few minutes of tense silence, Shan walked back to John. “Your friend must not care very much about your safety,” she sneered. “He hasn’t responded. Let’s make the situation a bit clearer.” She typed out another text and again showed it to John before pressing send.   
  
_Perhaps you have misunderstood. If you have not told us the location of the Empress’ pin in five minutes, the girl dies. After another five minutes, we will start taking pieces off of the boy. Hurry and answer, Mr. Holmes._

John sucked in a breath and glanced at Sarah from the corner of his eye. She had dropped her head back and closed her eyes, chest still heaving in quiet sobs. _Five minutes,_ John thought. _Five minutes to find the pin. Come on, Sherlock!_   
  
The phone buzzed a few seconds later, but Shan’s brow furrowed when she read the contents. “Five minutes is more than adequate time,” she muttered, typing. John decided that she was probably speaking in English specifically to frighten him. “And you have ten before we start cutting up the doctor. You’ve had several days already, but I’m sure that we can make the doctor last a few days more if you really need them.”   
  
_Jesus Christ._ John closed his eyes and felt his stomach turn to ice. _What’ll be left of me by the time Sherlock figures it out? A head and torso?_ Despite his terror, John took a minute to acknowledge the irony of his situation: He’d spent the last week thinking he needed to protect Sherlock, but here he waited, knowing he needed Sherlock to protect him.   
  
After that, the phone buzzed almost continuously as Shan and Sherlock bargained with each other. Not that it was doing any good, John could tell from Shan’s muttered comments. She had all of the cards, and Sherlock had absolutely nothing. _We’re going to die._ When he looked over at Sarah, she was staring at him. He tried to smile comfortingly around the gag, but she closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest. She’d stopped crying, at least. John didn’t think that was a good thing.   
  
The five minutes simultaneously passed excruciatingly slowly and far, far too quickly. At the end, Shan snapped the phone closed and turned to her hostages. “It seems your time has run out, pretty lady,” she said. Sarah screamed into her gag and started sobbing again as she thrashed against her restraints. John watched, unable to tear his eyes away, as the man raised his gun to the back of her head. Shan gave an order in Chinese, and as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger John’s breath froze in his throat.   
  
It was only through pure chance that he saw the tendril flash up from the floor and knock the gunman’s aim that crucial bit away. The report from the gunshot was deafening in the stone tunnel, but Sarah was still alive when the echoes faded, much to Shan’s astonishment. “What?” she gasped, staring at the gunman. John felt the air rush out of his nose as he stared at the ground, searching for the alien he knew was there. A small clamor near the mouth of the tunnel caught everyone’s attention.   
  
“It’s quite the impropriety to kill your guests. Don’t you agree, John?” John didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to hear Sherlock’s distinctive baritone. _Thank God._ The gunman aimed at the silhouette in the tunnel where Sherlock was standing, and John breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock disappeared back into the shadows.   
  
Shan had pulled her own gun out and was trying to set her aim on Sherlock. The gunman abandoned Sarah to stand beside her. “Mister Holmes,” she called. “I admit that I’m surprised to see you here. How did you find us?”   
  
As much as he absolutely hated her, in that moment John had to be grudgingly impressed by Shan’s performance. Her voice was perfectly calm, as if she were having the conversation over tea. The response didn’t come from Sherlock, however.   
  
“It was a simple matter of tracing John Watson’s phone,” Mycroft replied in smooth tones, “and calling the police with the coordinates. They’ll be here in less than a minute, by the way; it would be in your best interests to surrender yourselves and the hostages.”   
  
John caught Sarah’s eye and grinned at her around the cloth in his mouth. _We’re going to get out of here!_ She returned it weakly, and John noticed the light trembling in her frame. He resolved to buy her a huge bouquet of flowers after this was all over as an apology; she hadn’t agreed to this when she’d accepted his invitation for dinner and a movie.

“A minute is more than enough time to disappear,” Shan snarled at the Holmes brothers. With barely a word to her thug, she spun and dashed deeper into the tunnels. John was expecting the aliens to chase after her, so he was surprised when only Mycroft ran past them. After a few seconds, the sound of pounding footsteps abruptly stopped; John assumed that Mycroft had shifted back to his alien form for better speed and stealth. Sherlock knelt behind him and untied his wrists before moving to untie Sarah.  
  
“Are you alright?” he asked them. Sarah nodded shakily as her hands fell limply to her sides; John pulled off his gag and replied in the affirmative. “The police will be here in about three minutes. Mycroft was bluffing slightly. Why didn’t you wait for me?” The last question was directed to John.  
  
Standing and moving to remove Sarah’s gag, John asked, “What? Why would I have waited for you?”  
  
“I sent you a text when Mycroft told me they might be planning to attack you; I told you to go to a crowded place, give me your location, and wait for me.”  
  
 _Oh._ “I never got your text,” John explained. “I turned my phone off in the cinema and never turned it back on.” _That’s what Shan was referring to when she said that Sherlock had figured them out. If I’d just looked at Sherlock’s texts before leaving, we’d have never been kidnapped._ “Sorry,” he said, feeling worse than useless.  
  
Sherlock stared at him before letting his features soften and reaching over Sarah’s shoulder to brush a hand through John’s hair. “You’re an idiot,” he said, “but I can forgive you that.”  
  
John nodded to him and turned his attention to Sarah. “Hey, it’s okay; you’re going to be alright.” He ran a hand up and down her arm. “I promise the second date won’t be like this.”  
  
She looked at him with wide eyes before dropping her head and laughing. John grinned along, at first, but when she didn’t stop he started to get worried. “Sarah?” he prompted.  
  
“Second date,” she gasped out. _“Second date._ Jesus, John, you think I’m doing this again?” She lifted her head, and tears were streaming down her face despite the brittle laughter. “I’m not a damsel in distress – I don’t want to be a damsel in distress. I just want to have a nice boyfriend. God, I didn’t ask for kidnappers.” She glared at him, eyes bright with tears. “I’d slap you if my arms weren’t shaking so badly.” John glanced at Sherlock, shocked at her vehemence, but not really surprised, considering. He was saved from having to respond by the arrival of the Met.  
  
After that, things just seemed to happen around John: Mycroft reappeared with John’s phone but no sign of the Black Lotus members; one of the policemen bundled Sarah into a shock blanket and took her away; Dimmock appeared, looking furious, but Mycroft drew him aside before he could reach Sherlock; and John got the cut on his temple treated in the back of one of the ambulances. Sherlock sat by him and watched the chaos of a crime scene, apparently content to let the police handle this one. When the paramedic released him with a warning to watch for signs of a concussion, John followed Sherlock to Mycroft and Dimmock.  
  
The elder Holmes finished the conversation and handed John his phone. “Shan dropped it when she ran away,” he explained. “I’ll be keeping an eye out, but let me know if anything else happens.” Sherlock shook his hand before Mycroft turned and walked away; John suspected that they’d had an entire conversation in those few moments.  
  
“So. Sherlock Holmes,” Dimmock said. Sherlock turned to him, eyebrow raised. “I wanted to be furious at you for coming without the police, but a few things have been cleared up.” He nodded at Mycroft’s back. The next words seemed to physically hurt him. “You were right about everything, of course.”  
  
Sherlock stared at Dimmock, probably trying to parse the sudden change in attitude. “Yes, well, the Empress’ pin is still out there.”  
  
“Yeah.” The detective inspector ran a hand through his hair, looking very tired. “Who knows if we’ll ever find it.”

“You shouldn’t be so pessimistic,” Sherlock scolded. “It’s in the possession of Eddie Van Coon’s secretary.” He smiled at Dimmock’s stunned expression. “I’m sure that she’ll be keen to know. This crime scene looks like it’s just about finished up, though, don’t you think? I believe John and I will go home now.”  
  
“Er. Right. Yeah, no problem. The secretary, you said?”  
  
“The secretary, yes,” Sherlock confirmed, already turning and ushering John away. “Have a good night!”  
  
John glanced back once to see Dimmock’s face. He didn’t stop laughing until they were almost home.

* * *

Much to John’s bewilderment, Sherlock returned to sorting through the two smugglers’ books when they got back. “We’ve already figured out what was stolen and where it was taken,” John pointed out, “and we confronted the smuggling ring. Why are you still looking at the books?”   
  
Sherlock reformed as a human to explain, but he continued scanning books with his spare limbs. “Soo Lin said that they changed books every three months; if I can compile a list of all the books these men had in common, we might be able to predict and decipher the next set of codes.”   
  
“Oh.” It made a sort of sense, John supposed. Assuming, of course, that the triad didn’t adopt a completely different set of books or a new cipher system. “Do you want some help?”   
  
“No, I’ve got it. You wouldn’t know which books I’ve already gone through, anyway. Thank you, though.” The alien dropped back into a puddle and stretched out a few more tendrils to scan through the books.   
  
“Right. I suppose I’ll just go to sleep then,” John commented. He felt a bit adrift, unable to help – again – and coming down from the adrenaline high. But then a tendril removed itself from the writhing mess on the floor and followed him up the stairs; when John went to bed, it coiled gently around his wrist.   
  
Sherlock had compiled his list and sent it to Mycroft before John woke the next morning.

* * *

There was just one bit of business to take care of after that: Sebastian Wilkes. Sherlock decided to refuse the second check as a sort-of apology for impersonating his boyfriend and being a bit of an arse. “Not that I’ll tell him that’s why, of course,” he hurried to explain. “But I feel guilty for causing him such distress.”   
  
Admitting that it was probably the closest Sherlock could get to apologizing without breaking his cover, John accompanied him back to Tower 42 after work the next day. They actually passed Dimmock in the lobby – he was escorting Van Coon’s slightly hysterical secretary to the National Antiquities Museum – on their way in; the DI gave them a short smile before continuing out to the squad car.   
  
“I see he took your advice,” John noted.   
  
Sherlock smirked at him. “Did you expect otherwise?” They grinned at each other before Sherlock stepped up to the counter and asked to see Sebastian Wilkes.   
  
Sebastian stepped into his office and greeted them, much like he had on that first day, before taking a seat behind the desk. “Well?” he pressed. “Did you find the hole?”   
  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “The intruder scaled the outside of the building and came in through the window. Put a bar in, and you should have no further problems.”   
  
The bank manager stared at them. “The window. He actually climbed up thirty-eight stories of glass and came in through the window?”   
  
“He did the same thing to murder two people,” John interjected. “It was a particular talent.”   
  
“Right. Unbelievable. You’re sure?” At their nods, Sebastian shook his head and pulled out a checkbook. “I suppose I owe you another five thousand pounds, then.”   
  
Sherlock reached forward and wrapped a gloved hand around the end of the pen before Sebastian could start writing. “No need,” he objected. “I don’t want it.”   
  
“You don’t want it,” Sebastian repeated. He narrowed his eyes and examined Sherlock. “Really.”   
  
“Your case allowed me to solve two murders and expose a smuggling ring,” Sherlock said. “You don’t need to pay me for helping me. Keep the five thousand pounds – Mr. Sanderson will be pleased.”   
  
After a few more seconds of staring, Sebastian shrugged and put the checkbook away. “If you’re certain,” he agreed. “Well, thank you for your help. It was good to see you again.”

While Sebastian was clearly just being polite, Sherlock returned the sentiment sincerely and led John away from the banker’s incredulous scrutiny. “That was fun,” John commented as they exited the building. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?”   
  
“You look a bit peckish; we could stop at Angelo’s and get you some pasta,” Sherlock suggested.   
  
“Not funny, Sherlock. Not even a little bit.”

* * *

Two days after John had been kidnapped, the headlines read **“Who Wants to be a Million-Hair?”** John chuckled at the pun when he picked it up after work. “So Dimmock got credit for the case, Van Coon’s secretary got a huge finder’s fee for the pin, the National Antiquities Museum got the Empress’ pin for its collection, and Sebastian got to tell his boss he’s plugged the security hole and saved five thousand pounds. Sounds like everyone got a happy ending.” He flipped the paper closed and dropped it onto the coffee table before reclining on the couch. “Except for Van Coon, Lukis, Andy, Soo Lin, and me, of course. I called Sarah yesterday; she told me that she never wanted to see or hear from me again.”   
  
Sherlock placed the seven things he’d been examining in their proper places and reformed as a human. “I think the saddest part about this is that two men died for that pin – for avarice – and the only thing the papers can talk about is how Van Coon’s secretary is now rich. Have you really placed so much importance on money that you can’t recognize that there is no price for a life? One of the text messages that Shan sent me even mentioned that the value of your lives was information.”   
  
_This is going to be one of those conversations, isn’t it._ John sighed and nestled into the couch cushions. “It’s not everyone, Sherlock; we don’t all look at someone and place a value on his life.”   
  
“You do. I think it might be ingrained nature for your species; you see people and you weigh them by their merits. Those who have necessary skills are worth more to you; those who are less useful are the first to be sacrificed.”   
  
John tried to suppress his unease at Sherlock’s words, remembering how useless he’d been in the last few days. “That’s not true, Sherlock; one man’s life is just as valuable as the next.”   
  
“You say that, but I don’t think you really believe it.” Seeing John ready to retort, Sherlock cut him off. “You might not do it consciously, but you place values on everything. You calculated the value of my safety and the value of the cabby’s life, John, and made a decision based on those calculations.”   
  
John wanted to deny the statement, but when he thought about it he realized that Sherlock was right. “Oh. I hadn’t – I didn’t realize.” Putting it in such plain terms made everything seem more real. When had Sherlock become so important that he would take a fellow human’s life? Granted, the man had been a serial killer, but he had taken a life to preserve the secret of a pacifist. Of course Sherlock was angry; John had gone against almost everything Sherlock believed in. His gut twisted unpleasantly as he realized that he still didn’t regret it.   
  
Sherlock stared at him for a few moments before moving to kneel beside him. “I don’t hate you for it,” he reassured John, “but please don’t ever do it again. You haven’t had nightmares since you’ve been back here.”   
  
The non sequitur made John blink. “Pardon?”

“You promised that you’d get rid of the gun if you stopped having nightmares,” Sherlock reminded him.  
  
Every muscle in John’s body froze for half a second. _I did. What if something happens, though, like in the museum? I won’t be able to protect anyone, much less myself – I_ need _my Sig._ He looked up at Sherlock, mouth opened to protest, and froze at the blank expression. Sherlock’s features had blurred ever so slightly, and an occasional ripple would distort his gaze. A glance to the floor showed that Sherlock had devolved his lower body back into a puddle, and as he watched the dividing line between human and alien drifted higher. He looked for all the world like he was preparing to drop back into his natural form and white out John’s excuses. “I’ll get rid of it,” John blurted.  
  
Sherlock stared, frozen in surprise, before a wide grin split his face. “Thank you,” he breathed, reaching forward to hug John. “Thank you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I did promise,” John grumbled. He was smiling, too, though; the twisting in his gut had receded a bit, and he felt lightheaded. He reassured himself that the best protection he could offer Sherlock was protecting his secret. Sherlock eventually pulled away and snagged John’s laptop. He leaned against the front of the couch, so John dropped a hand into the alien’s hair and just relaxed.  
  
He’d fallen into a light doze for several minutes when Sherlock said, “Oh. That’s interesting.”  
  
“What is?” John asked, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder to read the screen. _“The Science of Deduction_ – isn’t that your website you told me about?”  
  
“Yes, but look at this: Someone left a rather unusual comment.” Sherlock pointed to the forum and tilted the screen so John could see it better.  
  
 _Anonymous: You and your brother would do well to keep out of my business, lest your business become mine._


	8. The Age of Aquarius

Life with Sherlock was never boring, but the next few weeks did pass more mundanely than usual. John went to work and came home; Sherlock dragged him out on cases and never failed to meet him for lunch, whether they went out or the alien brought him take-away. After John had allowed Sherlock to guide him through his uniform at Van Coon’s apartment, like they had in Afghanistan, they grew more comfortable with Sherlock handling John on occasion: He would lift John – and sometimes the chair he was sitting on, as well – when he was rearranging something in the sitting room and the human was in the way. It had startled John the first time, but he realized Sherlock felt more comfortable expressing his alien quirks in London than he had in Afghanistan and shrugged it off.   
  
Their cases were almost obscenely peaceful, compared to the adventures of the cabby and the triad; but day by day, John felt his tension growing when nothing came more of the smuggling case. It was almost disappointing: Sherlock had exposed a triad and successfully recovered a nine-million-quid hairpin, but there was no retaliation in any form. The anticlimactic closure left John unconsciously searching for some sort of conflict, and he became more irritable with Sherlock. He found himself recalling the discussions with Anderson and Lestrade about Sherlock’s cocaine use, and resolved to confront the two aliens about it. Unfortunately, Mycroft was extremely busy – the American presidential elections were coming up quickly, and the world was reacting accordingly – so he had to put off the conversation for a few days.   
  
John finally managed to corner both Mycroft and Sherlock almost a week later. “Right,” he said, glaring at them with belated agitation. “We’ve got something to discuss.” The two aliens shifted their bulks onto the couch; Mycroft formed as a human while Sherlock remained a blob. “Sherlock’s cocaine use.”   
  
Sherlock reformed at that and immediately protested. “It was for an experiment: I was examining the effects of Earthly substances on our physiology. Smoke and alcohol didn’t affect me, so I was testing the effect of intravenous drugs.” He shrugged. “You never know if some lunatic’s going to kidnap Mycroft or me and try to drug us.”   
  
“So you shot yourself up with cocaine,” John summarized. “Just so I know, did you think about the possible repercussions? At all? What if it _had_ affected you?” He turned on Mycroft. “And you let him do it!”   
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “We tested everything before bringing it into direct contact with Sherlock to determine the level of risk; for the higher-risked substances, I would supervise and prepare to remove the afflicted body part if it became necessary.”   
  
“The cocaine was so low-risk that I did the testing for it alone,” Sherlock added. “I was too focused on monitoring my reactions, however; I didn’t feel Lestrade come in.”   
  
“Right.” _I guess it’s a good thing that he was being careful, at least._ John ran a hand through his hair before Mycroft’s words registered. “Wait a second – ‘remove the afflicted body part?’ You were going to amputate him?”   
  
“If the substance reacted badly, of course.”   
  
It was difficult to reign in his horror and really think about it, but John managed. _Their physiology isn’t the same as yours,_ he reminded himself. _Maybe it’s no big deal to them. But I know that Sherlock feels things with his skin!_ “Doesn’t that hurt you?”   
  
Sherlock shifted and moved closer to his brother before abruptly moving away. “Yes,” he admitted, “but it’s not that bad. Most of our kind procreates at some point in life, after all.”

_Wait, what?!_ “How did we get onto the topic of reproduction?” John wondered, too bewildered to even blush properly.   
  
“Separation,” Mycroft explained. “In procreation, the parents release a part of their bodies, which combines with the other’s and forms the newborn.” He shrugged. “Your species does the same, if on a much smaller scale.”   
  
“Yes, but – it’s not the same as chopping off an arm!” He shook his head, realizing that he’d gotten off-track. “And that doesn’t change the fact that he was taking cocaine and you were letting him.”   
  
“Oh, come on!” Sherlock exploded. “It’s not as if anything happened; if Lestrade hadn’t walked in on me, you’d have never even known in the first place. I was careful about it; it wouldn’t have killed me.”   
  
“You were going to _amputate_ part of your body if you had a bad reaction, Sherlock; that’s not even considering if – somehow – the cocaine actually managed to affect you. Honestly, what were you thinking?”   
  
“John,” Mycroft said gently. “We are explorers, in a sense; while there was a scouting mission several years ago to determine that your planet needed help and that we could survive in your atmosphere, Sherlock and I are the first to really interact with your kind. My primary mission is to help you find peace, but my secondary mission is to open relations between our planets. To do that, we need to know what on Earth to warn our kind against.”   
  
“As Mycroft is trained heavily in diplomatic matters, where the bulk of my training lies in what you would consider the sciences, it was only logical that I should take the lead in examining your planet and searching for potential dangers.” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s a matter of playing to our strengths.”   
  
“We were careful, John,” Mycroft added. “We depend on each other to remain sane, remember? It’s only when we were almost positive that a substance wouldn’t harm us that I let Sherlock do the testing unsupervised.”   
  
John sighed. “And the cocaine was one of those.” _Just because it’s incredibly harmful to the human body doesn’t mean that it’s harmful to theirs._ Nonetheless, the doctor in him recoiled at the idea, regardless of relative safety. “I’d still really appreciate it if you wouldn’t do that again.”   
  
The aliens didn’t respond for several seconds. “I can’t promise you that.” Sherlock overrode John’s protests, “If there’s something on your planet that harms us, we _need_ to find it. But I can promise to let you know before I test something.”   
  
_That’s probably the best I’m going to get from him,_ John thought, resigned. “Fine.” He dropped back into his chair, massaging his temples. “Is there anything on your planet that humans should be worried about?”   
  
“Beyond the lack of oxygen and some radiation, not really,” Mycroft said. “We already know that our species is nontoxic to most, if not all, Earth creatures; there aren’t any predators on our planet, and the chemical composition of the atmosphere and ground surface holds very little danger toward your species.”   
  
“Radiation?”   
  
“Our planet doesn’t have an ozone layer like yours,” Sherlock explained. “We’re fairly certain that the radiation from the stars played a large part in our evolution. As it is, our species is the only life form on our planet; we don’t have the ecological diversity that Earth has.” He glanced out the window. “Your planet is fascinating, really; so many different animals, plants, soils – it’s incredible!”   
  
The alien sounded wistful. John stared at the brothers for a few seconds before sighing. “I’ll make you a deal,” he suggested. “You two promise to not do stupid things like shooting yourselves up with cocaine – at the very least, not without consulting me first – and I’ll take you to the London Zoo this afternoon. There’s a huge collection of Earth animals and plants there; you can get a look at what we have to offer.” The entrance fee for three adults might be a bit steep for his current income, but he’d manage it for the aliens. At least he only had to buy food for one.

Sherlock froze for several seconds before matching expression to emotion and turning wide eyes on John, clearly enthusiastic about the idea, but Mycroft grimaced and shook his head. “I have a meeting this afternoon with the American President,” he declined. “Take Sherlock; he can show me everything later.”   
  
_Touch telepathy and perfect memory recall; forgot about that._ “If you’re sure,” John agreed. “Sherlock? Are you interested?”   
  
He laughed at the incredulous expression that earned him.

* * *

They arrived at the London Zoo at almost exactly 14:00; Sherlock being Sherlock, of course, had only been in the zoo for ten minutes before finding a dead body.   
  
John sighed and nodded to Sally, who stared at them incredulously from the Reptile House. “Alright,” she said, “I know for a fact that Lestrade didn’t call you. Why are you here?”   
  
“It’s just coincidence,” John replied. “We came to look at the animals.” One glance at Sherlock told him that there was no way they’d be leaving without investigating.   
  
Sure enough, Sherlock budged by Sally, paying her no attention. “What’s happened?” Sherlock dragged John under the police cordon, ignoring both his hissed protests and Sally’s cry of outrage. “Oh, a dead marine biologist. What’s he doing here with the reptiles?”   
  
Lestrade glanced up from where he was discussing the dead body with Anderson – the man’s presence meant that John wouldn’t be needed, as he’d clearly brought a full forensic team with him – and upon seeing Sherlock, the DI rolled his eyes and moved to intercept his progress toward the body. “Sherlock, you can’t be here; I didn’t call you in.”   
  
“Clearly, I was meant to be here. What have you got?”   
  
“Harold Chestersire: He’d recently broken up with one Katrina Moden —a snake handler at this zoo – who hasn’t been seen by anyone since twenty minutes before the murder. He was killed with venom from a black mamba; everything points to Moden. Now, it’s just a matter of finding her and arresting her. I think we can handle it. Go enjoy the rest of the zoo and leave us be, would you?”   
  
John’s professional instincts took over, scanning the scene while Lestrade spoke. He noticed a slight bulge in the ground near the body that hadn’t been there before. _He’s using a tentacle to examine the body!_ John nudged Sherlock and shook his head slightly; the alien sighed and pulled his tentacle back in. “Very well,” Sherlock said, shocking both John and Lestrade. “Come on, John; I want to look at the Aquarium anyway.”   
  
“Er. Right, sure,” John agreed, caught off-balance. _He’s giving up that easily?_ More than a little suspicious, he followed the alien across the walkway to the Aquarium. “You alright?”   
  
“Hm? Oh, of course.” Instead of walking through the front entrance, Sherlock led John to the worker’s entrance. John watched as the alien’s skin oozed over and around the sleeves and legs of Sherlock’s coat and trousers, covering the clothes completely and disguising them as an employee’s uniform. As they walked in, Sherlock explained, “The body was covered with traces of water – sea water, based on the sediment. I want to see if it matches any of the tanks here.”   
  
_Not giving up, then._ “Wait. How can you test that? That kind of sediment is too small to see; you’d need a microscope.”   
  
That seemed to startle Sherlock; he stopped walking and stared at John. “You can’t see it?” he asked.   
  
“No. You can?”   
  
“Of course I can; I just have to be close enough. How can you _not_ see it?” He held a hand in front of John’s face, almost touching his eyes. “Can you see what shape I’m making?”   
  
John blinked, eyelashes brushing the alien’s skin. Even with his eyes almost completely crossed, it just looked blurry. “No.”   
  
Sherlock pulled back and stared at him. “Oh.” He shook his head. “How sad; that’s why your kind misses so much, isn’t it? You’re so blind that you really can’t see it.”   
  
Annoyed, John retorted, “Yeah, we’re blind. Great. Can we get on with this, now?”   
  
They made their ways through the halls, Sherlock falling into the role of an employee guiding a friend around behind the scenes whenever someone passed. Sherlock examined the water in each tank and exhibit, but he shook his head after every one.

“Well?” John prompted once they’d finished.  
  
Huffing in annoyance – John’s eyebrows furrowed as he wondered where the alien had picked up _that_ particular trick – Sherlock retracted his skin and regained his usual appearance. “The water didn’t come from the tanks,” he said. “It had to come from somewhere, though: Where else in London would we find sea water in large amounts?” He was already walking towards the gate.  
  
“There’s the Aquarium,” John suggested. “SeeLife, I think?”  
  
“Near Waterloo, yes. Good thinking. Come; we can get a cab.”  
  
 _So much for a day at the zoo,_ John lamented as they walked out. _At least we got day passes, so we can come back later._ He considered the zeal with which Sherlock would investigate the case. _Maybe._

* * *

Sherlock snuck them in through a back entrance, much like he had at the London Zoo’s Aquarium, and John was thankful that he didn’t to pay the ₤40 for admission. _It’s not as though we’re here for the exhibits, really,_ he told his guilt. _It’s not stealing._   
  
The alien led him through the service halls for the tanks, and he dipped a hand into the first they reached. It was covered by a strange metal grill, almost like a cage, but Sherlock shrank his hand to pass through the tiny links. “Yes,” he hissed, grinning. “This is it.”   
  
_There’s something wrong here._ “But it’s a twenty-minute drive to the zoo; how did the water get there?”   
  
“Lestrade said the man died of a snake bite; while Anderson may be incompetent, I doubt he’s so incompetent as to misdiagnose a cause of death that badly.”   
  
“He’s not incompetent,” John said for what felt like the hundredth time. “He’s just not exceptionally brilliant at putting together evidence. Cut us some slack, Sherlock; we’re only human.”   
  
Sherlock glanced at John before continuing with his explanation. “That means that the murder had to take place at the zoo, unless there are venomous snakes here.” He raised an eyebrow at John, who shrugged and shook his head. _No idea._ “So the killer must have brought the water with him from this tank. That can only mean one thing.”   
  
John waited expectantly for several seconds, but Sherlock didn’t elaborate. “One thing?” he prompted.   
  
Rather than answer, Sherlock ignored John and dropped to his belly beside the surface of water. His neck stretched so that his head hovered over the center of the tank. John stared, nonplussed. “Ah, Sherlock?” The hallway was empty, but that could change at any moment.   
  
“What is that?” Sherlock asked with a completely different tone. He was staring down through the water at whatever had caught his attention in the tank.   
  
Confused, John dropped to his knees beside the alien and peered through the rippling surface. The tank had a fake rock formation, but John couldn’t see any fish. “Where?”   
  
“In the back, squeezed between the rock and the wall. It’s blended into the wall, John; it can change its colour. Why didn’t you tell me that there were creatures on Earth like me?”   
  
It might have been a trick of the refracting light, but John thought he saw a long tentacle weave through the water. “An octopus?” he guessed. _Octopi can camouflage themselves, and they’ve got no skeletal system._   
  
The alien recited what sounded like a dictionary entry: “‘Octopus: Any of a genus – Octopus – of cephalopod mollusks that have eight muscular arms equipped with two rows of suckers.’ Why isn’t there anything about the colour-changing and camouflage?”   
  
_Yep. Dictionary entry._ John forgot, sometimes, that Sherlock was an alien and hadn’t been exposed to some of the most common animals on Earth. _That was the point of the trip to the zoo._ “Most children learn that at a young age. Sherlock, you can’t just reach in and grab it!” He wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s venturing wrist and held it away from the metal grill.   
  
“What if it’s like me, though? What if it communicates through telepathy, like me?” The hand in John’s grasp had lost most of its definition – it looked like something an amateur artist would have sketched.   
  
“Octopi don’t communicate with telepathy, Sherlock.”   
  
“How could you _possibly_ know? You can’t communicate with telepathy to ask!”

_He’s got a point._ “There’s a glass wall in the tank,” he warned, giving in. “People will be looking through it. Don’t get caught.” He released Sherlock’s wrist.   
  
The hand flattened and slid through the bars of the cage; Sherlock kept it close to the side of the tank, camouflaging his skin like the octopus itself, and reached for the octopus at the bottom. When he made contact, the octopus turned a brilliant white, and John realized that it was much larger than he’d thought. “Careful, Sherlock,” he warned. “It’s got suckers on its tentacles.”   
  
Sherlock tried to get a response for a few more seconds, but the octopus only squirted ink and fled back into the depths of the tank. He pulled his hand out, almost reluctantly, and helped John to his feet. “No connection,” he reported. “I couldn’t feel it.”   
  
John patted him on the shoulder, _almost_ able to tell that he was disappointed purely through the drooping posture. After a few seconds, Sherlock straightened and led John deeper through the maze of hallways. “There’s only one way the water could have gotten to the zoo,” Sherlock continued, and John scrambled mentally to keep up. “The murderer’s clothing was carrying it when he – or she – left this Aquarium. The only people who have contact with the water in these tanks are the workers; now we just have to figure out which worker has a connection to our victim.” They paused by a door, which Sherlock leaned against before kicking off and continuing down the hall. “The victim was clearly a marine biologist, based on the state of his hands, so our killer is more likely to be a fellow marine biologist rather than a janitor.” Sherlock stopped and leaned against another door for a few seconds, and then they kept walking.   
  
“Wait, so the killer wasn’t the snake handler?”   
  
“Of course not, John.” Sherlock stopped and rested against the next door before moving on. “The black mamba is far from the deadliest snake in the Reptile House; the king cobra, for example, would have been a far more effective choice. Our killer didn’t know his snakes very well and probably picked the first snake with the word ‘venomous’ on its placard.”   
  
John stared at him. “You know the relative toxicities of some of the deadliest snakes in the world, but you didn’t know what an octopus looked like?”   
  
Sherlock shrugged. “There was a case with a religious snake handling accident seven months ago. It was interesting, so I researched it further.” He leaned against yet another door.   
  
“What are you doing?”   
  
“Searching the offices.” The alien rested against another door and raised an eyebrow at John’s sharp glance. When he looked, John realized that Sherlock was extending a tendril past the leg of his trousers and through the crack under the door.   
  
“You’re trespassing again,” John accused.   
  
“We already were,” came the counterargument, “unless you slipped ₤40 to the Ticketmaster when I wasn’t watching.” John forcefully suppressed the guilty flinch and turned his head away. Sherlock was silent for a moment before sighing and running a hand through John’s hair. “Sorry.” The alien continued carding his fingers over John’s scalp, and damn him if he didn’t relax into it.   
  
“Privacy is kind of an important thing to most people, Sherlock,” he explained softly. “I’m not comfortable with you violating it so casually.”   
  
“If it helps, I found what I was looking for,” Sherlock offered. He pulled his hand away when John looked up at him. “The marine biologist who was working in this office had a piece of mail on his desk from Harold Chestersire – our victim.” Before he could turn and unlock the door with a specially-formed finger, an employee came around the corner.   
  
“Hey, what are you two doing?” he called, striding towards them. “That’s not your office; you can’t just take your friend in there!” Sherlock straightened and adopted an innocently confused expression as the man approached. “I don’t know your face. Do you even work here?”   
  
“I’m new,” Sherlock replied. “I’m working with the marine biologist who works in here, and I brought my friend to meet him.” He nodded to the still-closed office. “We were just checking to see if he was in.”

“What? That’s Dr. Sharpe’s office. She’s not a man.” He grabbed his radio. “Security to A374; we have a break-in. You two need to wait here to be escorted off the grounds.”  
  
 _God damn it, Sherlock!_ John had time to think, and then Sherlock grabbed his arm and hauled him away from the employee, who squawked after them angrily. Then John got his feet under him and sprinted alongside the alien. They made it down two intersections before they heard pounding footsteps ahead of them; Sherlock shoved John into the recess of a closed door and flattened himself against him, facing outwards. His coat flared backwards as he expanded his chest to cover the entire doorway, blocking the light. John held his breath as the footsteps approached, but they continued on and passed them.  
  
Sherlock reformed and pulled his coat straight. “I camouflaged us as the doorway; that should buy us some time. Let’s get back to the zoo and find Lestrade.”  
  
Heart still pounding with adrenaline, John nodded. “Right.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, as they waited in the queue to get back into the London Zoo, John asked, “Why did we run, if we had what we needed?”   
  
“It’s highly unlikely that the security guards would have just escorted us off the facilities and let us go: We probably would have gotten ASBOs, at the least. You’re in law enforcement, and it would have reflected very poorly on you, so I hid us and got us out a different way.” Sherlock glanced at him before turning his gaze out over the crowds. John stared at the back of his head, fully aware that the alien was still watching him.   
  
“So you had us run away and almost exposed yourself – the guards could have easily brushed against you as they ran past, and you know it – just to keep me from getting an ASBO?” John considered it for a moment. “It was really stupid of you, but I guess I should say thanks anyway.” _Getting an ASBO_ would _have been bad; he’s right about that._ “How about next time we don’t get into that kind of situation in the first place?”   
  
Sherlock grinned at him and didn’t reply. _Not likely,_ John translated.

* * *

Lestrade was just finishing the clean-up of the crime scene when they arrived at the Reptile House again. He saw them approach and excused himself to greet them. “I have to admit, I was surprised when you took my advice and just enjoyed the zoo,” he said. “Have a good time, then?”   
  
John coughed as Sherlock answered. “The snake handler isn’t your killer. You’re looking for a Dr. Sharpe; she works at the SeeLife Aquarium.”   
  
“Pardon?” The detective inspector’s eyebrows had risen almost to his hairline. “And, how do you know this?”   
  
“We haven’t exactly been enjoying the zoo,” John explained. “Sherlock figured out that Moden couldn’t have been the killer…” He hesitated, unsure how to explain the jump to the other aquarium without revealing Sherlock’s inhuman abilities.   
  
“And, I realized that I’d seen Chestersire’s name in the news with Sharpe’s,” Sherlock finished. “I don’t remember what, exactly, the story was about, but I know that there’s some connection between them. You’ll need to pull in Dr. Sharpe for questioning to make sure, but I’m certain that she’s the one responsible for Chestersire’s death.”   
  
“Really? I’m certain that you’re wrong, then,” Lestrade replied. “Moden confessed.”   
  
They stared at him in shocked silence. “What?” John managed. _But Sherlock was so_ sure…. _How could he have been so wrong?_   
  
“She’s lying, then,” Sherlock decided. “I need to talk to her.”   
  
“No, I really don’t think you do,” the DI said. “I told you that we could handle this one; you should have just enjoyed your day at the zoo.” He nodded to the two of them and turned back to the nearly-cleared crime scene. “Have a good evening, boys!” he called over his shoulder.

_What if Lestrade’s right?_ John wondered. As he considered it, most of the evidence was circumstantial. The only thing actually tying the SeeLife Aquarium – and therefore Dr. Sharpe – to the case was the sea water. _And, who knows if Sherlock’s vision really is that good? What if he was wrong?_ Dr. Sharpe could have just been a colleague with no ill intent; the snake handler could have just grabbed the snake that was closest at hand in a moment of passion.   
  
“We need to find Dr. Sharpe,” Sherlock stated, grabbing John’s wrist and towing him back towards the entrance. “If we can interrogate her, ask her what her connection is to Chestersire, we can prove that she’s the murderer. She won’t be expecting anyone to connect her to the victim; she thinks she’s clear of suspicion.”   
  
“Wait, Sherlock.” He dug his heels in and forced Sherlock to stop or risk wrenching John’s arm out of its socket. “What if the water on Chestersire’s clothes is from one of the other exhibits here? We didn’t check them all, earlier; everything else is all circumstantial evidence.”   
  
The alien stared at him, expression blank. “It’s not,” he protested flatly. John winced, sure that Sherlock was surprised with hurt. “The water was an exact match for the octopus tank. John, I’m not wrong. Trust me.”   
  
John searched Sherlock’s expression and body language for a second – they were screaming _‘Please just_ listen _to me!’_ in both human and alien – and nodded. “I trust you.” _And I’ll follow you. Even if you’re wrong; we’ll be wrong together._   
  
Sherlock smiled at him and whirled back to the exit, where he hailed the first cabby they saw. Grumbling at being forced to spend all of the money he’d brought for food and souvenirs on cab fare, John paid the cabby when they arrived back at SeeLife Aquarium. Again. They snuck back in through the employee’s entrance – “Didn’t we just have this argument an hour ago?” John muttered – and worked their way back to Sharpe’s office. She was sitting behind her desk and looked up at them, surprised, when they walked in.   
  
“Can I help you?”   
  
“What is your connection to Harold Chestersire?” Sherlock countered, placing both hands on her desk and looming over her. John moved to stand beside him and caught a glimpse of Chestersire’s name in the wastebasket. While Dr. Sharpe stuttered a response to the alien, John grabbed the paper and examined it.   
  
_‘…plagiarism and intellectual theft; I have all of the copies of my original work. I’ll see you in court…’_ he read before Sharpe leapt to her feet and grabbed it from his hands. “Don’t read that!” she snarled, face blotchy.   
  
“It mentioned plagiarism,” John commented. “Did you steal Chestersire’s work?”   
  
“No; he was trying to claim that I stole his research. It’s my work; I earned my position!” Her eyes were wide with rage, and she was gasping for breath.   
  
“You’re lying,” Sherlock informed her. “You’re displaying all of the signs.” He sighed and shook his head. “It must have been hard, spending all of those years terrified that he would say something – more importantly, that someone would believe him – and take away this tiny bit of recognition you’ve gained for yourself.”   
  
Dr. Sharpe was starting to look lost. “I didn’t steal his work,” she repeated. “He was just a greedy, jealous little man; he wanted to ruin me. But it’s my work!” she added firmly.   
  
Sherlock nodded. “So why are you referring to him in the past tense?” He smirked without humour. “You killed him.”   
  
The marine biologist froze, and her face drained of blood. She collapsed in her chair and buried her head in her hands. “No one was supposed to question me,” she muttered. John pulled out his phone and sent a text to Lestrade with their location and Dr. Sharpe’s name. He made sure to include the fact that they had proof of her guilt. “He told me that he had everything set up; there would be no reason to think of me.”   
  
“Who told you that?” Sherlock asked sharply. _“Who?”_ he repeated when she didn’t answer.

“A man. I knew – When Chestersire started sending me letters, phone calls, emails; I knew that he was going to expose me. I’d lose everything.” Her shoulders shook, and her voice thickened with tears. “And then I heard of him. ‘Ask him for help,’ they said. ‘He can fix it.’ But it didn’t work!”  
  
“Who is he? Who are they?”  
  
She shook her head. “Someone contacted me one night and told me about him; he made everything happen. It was all just whispers.”  
  
Sherlock was vibrating with frustration. “Did those whispers have a _name?”_  
  
“I can’t.” Dr. Sharpe looked up at him, mascara running down her cheeks. “I can’t! He’ll kill me.”  
  
John cleared his throat. “A man is dead, and an innocent woman was nearly arrested for his murder. At this point, it would be better for you to cooperate.”  
  
She swallowed heavily, and her mouth opened and closed a few times before she managed, “Moriarty.”  
  
After that, she collapsed into sobs. They couldn’t get anything more out of her before Lestrade arrived with back-up. Sherlock explained the situation to him and turned over the murderess; he and John had almost gone when Lestrade called them back. “We’ve got two people confessing to the same crime,” he hissed, “and neither is claiming that she had help. If we can’t get one of them to admit that she didn’t do it, we’ll never get a conviction! You’re coming with me.”  
  
As angry as he was that Sherlock and John had interfered in an investigation without his consent, it seemed that Lestrade had realized he needed Sherlock to sort out the conflicting confessions. Lestrade piled the two of them into the back of a squad car and drove them back to the police station – _At least I don’t have to pay cab fare this time_ – where Sherlock made his way into the interrogation room with Miss Moden. After nearly an hour spent trying to convince her he already knew she was innocent, she finally broke, explaining that a man in a mask had abducted her just before Cherstersire had been killed and threatened her lover’s life if she didn’t confess to the murder. She had no idea who the man had been, and no attempt to boost her memory helped. The police promised her protection in exchange for her testimony in court, and Sherlock called Lestrade in to take her statement.

* * *

When they were finally released from the police station, John was starving, so they stopped at a small Italian bistro on the way back to the zoo. “I’m going to get fat off of this, you realize,” John commented as he finished the meal. “I’ve had more Italian in the last few months than I have in years.” Sherlock merely smiled. Since their daily lunches during John’s early days at the Met, Sherlock seemed to enjoy feeding John by forcing him into restaurants or picking up takeout to bring him.   
  
John checked the time when they left the bistro and found that they had only a little more than an hour left before the zoo would close, much to Sherlock’s dismay. “I hadn’t realized that it would take so long,” he admitted, chagrined.   
  
“Found a murderer, saved an innocent woman from prison, and uncovered evidence of a shadowy crime figure? I think you did alright for one afternoon.” John shook his head, smiling softly, and reached a hand up to rub through Sherlock’s hair. “Don’t worry about it. We can still get back before it closes tonight, and there’s something I want to show you.” He’d been thinking about it ever since seeing how interested Sherlock had been in the octopus, and it seemed like a good way to thank him for saving him from an ASBO earlier.   
  
When they got back to the zoo, they managed to squeeze in just before the employees started to end admission. John stationed Sherlock by a decorative planter and ordered, “Stay here; I’ll be back in a tic.” He could feel Sherlock’s stare on his back as he made his way to the visitor’s center and found a manager. “Excuse me, Miss.”   
  
The woman turned and smiled at him. “Call me Teresa. How can I help you?”

“I’m John Watson; I brought my friend, Sherlock Holmes today – he’d never been to a zoo before – but we ended up spending the day tracking down the woman responsible for Harold Chestersire’s death. I was wondering if you might make an exception for us and let us stay after closing; Sherlock was fascinated by the octopus, and I thought I’d take him to the Aquarium when there aren’t hundreds of people crowding it.”  
  
“Katrina is a friend of mine. Sure, I can do that for the men who saved her. I’ll escort you through; meet me at the entrance of the Aquarium at closing time. John Watson, right?”  
  
“Right. Thank you!” John went back to Sherlock and took him to the gorilla enclosure, ignoring the alien’s curious glances. They spent their remaining time watching the mammals knuckle around and making jokes about human intelligence relative to gorillas – John made the first one, so he really couldn’t take offense. When the zoo announced closing time over the loudspeakers, however, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and towed him against the flow of people.  
  
“John? Where are you going? The park’s closing – we’re supposed to leave.”  
  
“I’ve got a surprise for you.” John saw Teresa standing at the entrance to the Aquarium and waved to her. “You were interested in that octopus at SeeLife, right?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, it reminded me of another sea creature that I think you’ll like even more.” He introduced Sherlock to the manager, and they waited for the Aquarium to clear out.  
  
Teresa led them through Hall One fairly quickly; John had told her that he was more interested in Hall Two. “Ah, the coral reefs. We have hundreds of species of fish in that hall, most of which are extraordinarily colourful. Which one do you have in mind?”  
  
But, John just smiled at her and didn’t answer. When they stepped into Hall Two, lights dimmed now that the tourists had gone, John pulled Sherlock away and took him to the glass walls. “Have you ever heard of a cuttlefish?” he asked, searching the reef for a specimen.  
  
The timing was perfect: Sherlock replied in the negative just as John spotted one of the squid-like creatures, and John pointed it out. “Oh,” Sherlock gasped when it changed colour and texture in the blink of an eye. The cuttlefish seemed interested in the strange humanoids staring through the glass, and it swam to hover in front of them. The tentacles in front spread and gained zebra stripes.  
  
John watched Sherlock as the alien pressed a hand flat against the glass. From the reflection of light on the cuttlefish, he could tell that Sherlock was changing the colours of his palm to mirror the little creature. The cuttlefish drifted nearer and laid a tentacle over Sherlock’s hand, shifting the colour to a pale white; presumably, Sherlock adjusted accordingly.  
  
It was only when Sherlock turned and grinned at John that he realized that he’d been smiling gently at the alien. “Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, grabbing John’s hand with the one that wasn’t pressed against the tank before turning back to the cuttlefish. He was utterly enthralled.  
  
Sherlock’s strangely-textured skin felt oddly comforting against John’s palm; he glanced down at their clasped fingers and returned to watching Sherlock. The water distorted the lights from the tank and threw a shifting pattern across the alien’s pale face. John watched the shimmering waves play over Sherlock’s skin, and he wondered if any human could ever hope to compete with Sherlock’s ethereal beauty. Surely, no human could wear those sharp cheekbones and those light eyes, now wide in awe, as well as Sherlock? He knew that no human could ever match Sherlock’s intelligence – the alien was in a category all his own. Plainly put, Sherlock was simply extraordinary.

And, just like that, John understood. _I love him,_ he realized with all the sudden impact of a crash-landing lunar module. _I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes._ It explained so much: his despair when Sherlock left him in Afghanistan, his hurt when the alien ditched him at a crime scene in their early days in London. He held his breath, waiting for his perspective on the world to change with the epiphany, but nothing happened. His heart beat a little faster, and he was a little more aware of the unusual texture against his hand, but Sherlock stayed just the same. John didn’t love him any more or any less than he had a few seconds before; he’d only learned what it meant. _Nothing has to change._   
  
The hand in his tightened, and John looked up to see the cuttlefish swimming back to the reef. Sherlock watched it until it disappeared around a coral growth; he turned to John and smiled widely before wrapping him in a hug. “Thank you so much,” Sherlock hummed against the top of his head. “It was wonderful. You’re wonderful.”   
  
Heart nearly fluttering, John blushed and wrapped his arms around the alien in return. A scuff of fabric against the far wall reminded him that Teresa was still with them in the hall, and he tore himself away, face flaming. “I’m glad you liked it,” he forced past his mortification. He tried to grin, but it felt closer to baring his teeth. “Is there anything else you wanted to see, or should we get going?”   
  
Sherlock glanced at the manager, who was smiling at them like she wanted to tug their cheeks and call them adorable. “I think I’m ready to go back home,” he agreed.   
  
Teresa almost successfully hid a pout of disappointment and escorted them back to the entrance of the zoo. “Please, come again soon!” she prompted. John couldn’t help but feel that she meant it a bit more enthusiastically toward them than to other patrons. He suppressed a shiver and promised himself to avoid the woman, if at all possible, should he and Sherlock ever return. With a faked smile, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and dragged him to the nearest cab. Sherlock glanced at him occasionally during the ride home in between comments about the cuttlefish and octopus, but John didn’t realize why until he tried to get out at Baker Street and realized that he hadn’t let go of the alien’s hand.

* * *

John would have been more than happy to retreat to his room and contemplate the extent to which he could safely express his affection to Sherlock, but the alien in question had other ideas. Arms waving wildly and just a bit too elastically to pass for human, he exclaimed, “Did you see how flexible the octopus’s tentacles were? It could have almost made some of the shapes I can. And, the cuttlefish changed colours so quickly! John, your creatures are amazing!”   
  
“Yes, they certainly are interesting,” John agreed, trying to edge past Sherlock’s flailing limbs to reach the staircase. “I remember watching them for hours as a child when I went to an aquarium with my friends.”   
  
That garnered a weighted stare, and Sherlock bodily placed him on the couch before straightening and stripping off both coat and trousers. Any protests John may have formed were swallowed in the choked noise he made. “Sherlock? What are you doing?”   
  
“Experimenting.” The alien turned a dark magenta before rapidly shifting through white, brown, and yellow. John stared, mesmerized, as Sherlock’s skin gained new colours and textures before his eyes: The strobing flashes of speckled shades of brown alternated with blue polka dots was particularly hypnotizing. “And, my hypothesis has been proven correct: Your species seems to have a strong interest in cephalopods, notably the octopus. The ability to rapidly and dramatically change its colouring interests you and captures your attention. In fact, I was able to steal something of yours while you were distracted.”   
  
“What?” John glanced down to Sherlock’s hand and realized that the alien had taken his wallet. _Isn’t that one of the strategies an octopus will use when hunting for food?_ “So, what: You’re a space octopus?”

Sherlock paused in his colour-shifting – currently a psychedelic swirl of purple, yellow, and green – and stared at him for a second before forming into an octopus. John had exactly three seconds to laugh, and then Sherlock launched himself at him. The eight arms wrapped around John’s arms and torso, false suckers gently tugging at his skin and clothes. _How is he…? Oh. He made a vacuum._ “Cute, Sherlock.”   
  
One of the tentacles playfully flopped over the back of his head and landed on his face. With his eyes crossed, he could see it curling just over the tip of his nose. John blew a puff of air at it, and Sherlock turned blue. Amused, John did it again; Sherlock turned purple. They went through the rainbow before John started squirming to free an arm. The tentacles on that side loosened, and John brought his hand forward to rest on the octopus’s head. They stayed like that for several minutes, John held securely in Sherlock’s arms, before John realized his position and flushed. “Um. You, er. You should probably let me go, now.” _Not that I particularly mind, but there’s the principle of the matter: You’re an alien and I’m a human. It just won’t work out._   
  
Sherlock tilted his head and removed three of the eight tentacles; the remaining five lifted John off the couch – “Sherlock, what are you _doing?”_ – and carried him over Sherlock’s head as he crawled up the stairs to John’s room. John found himself hanging upside-down from the strong grip with his face dangling in front of the octopus’s. Sherlock winked outrageously with the strangely-shaped googly eyes, and John burst out laughing. “Bloody lunatic,” he gasped.   
  
The space octopus – and John was going to remember that for the next time Sherlock annoyed him – deposited John on his bed and pinned him with two tentacles while the rest stretched impossibly back down the stairs. John took advantage of the reprieve to catch his breath and dig a heel into one of Sherlock’s arms. “Sherlock, seriously, what are you doing?” The alien didn’t reply, of course; an octopus’s beak wasn’t very conducive to human speech. After a few minutes, Sherlock drew in the missing six limbs and revealed that he’d fixed a simple dinner while he’d been holding John. He loosened his grasp and helped him sit up in the bed; one tentacle was sacrificed for a small table on which he rested the dinner tray.   
  
“You made me dinner,” John said, blinking. “Um. Thanks.”   
  
Sherlock waved his tentacles happily – except the one holding the tray, of course – before putting on a pretty spectacular colour show. Green tentacles wove through burnt orange and shifted to sky blue as they wound in a twisting formation over Sherlock’s head. John watched the display as he ate his food, pausing to applaud whenever the alien did something especially interesting. When he finished the meal, Sherlock continued performing; John absolutely could not fight the grin on his face.   
  
_It’s almost like watching a fireworks show in my own bedroom,_ he reflected. _All flashes of colour and beautiful designs._ The alien spiraled his tentacles up in a finale that John applauded enthusiastically. As Sherlock melted in reverse to form as a human, John said, “That was amazing! Where did you learn it?”   
  
“On my home planet, our entertainment industry isn’t quite as well-developed as yours. We don’t have motion pictures or photography, but we have dance and story-telling.” He rested a palm against the side of John’s neck. “We create tales – fantastic tales – and pass them on through our touch. As we experience each retelling, we’ll often add or change it in some way to make it even better. Our greatest epics have been created this way.” Sherlock removed his hand and twisted the fingers around impossibly to form a wreathed design. As he peered at it, John noticed that each strand held minutely detailed engravings. “Our dance is an art of concentration: Create the most intricate and beautiful shapes you can without losing control of the form. The more detail, the harder we must concentrate.”   
  
“Incredible,” John gasped, brushing his fingertips over Sherlock’s hand. As he watched, it writhed and changed, each individual design shifting and reforming into a completely new form. “This is how you dance.”

Sherlock smiled at him and reformed his hand to the usual four fingers and a thumb. “Not quite what you’re used to, of course.”   
  
“No, not quite.” They grinned at each other, but John interrupted himself with a wide yawn, suddenly feeling his exhaustion. “It’s been a long day,” he reminded Sherlock. “I’m done in for the night, I think.”   
  
The alien nodded and stood up. As he turned and reached the door, he hesitated. “There’s one thing that’s still bothering me,” he admitted. “Moriarty. The man orchestrated the entire murder scenario without even once revealing his face.”   
  
John shrugged and fell back in his bed. “You’ll figure it out,” he assured Sherlock. The alien hummed and closed the door behind him, one tendril snaking under the door to wrap around John’s wrist. He brushed a finger down the tendril, marveling at the beautiful, intelligent, _amazing_ being that had chosen him as a friend. _You can figure anything out, if you try. I said I’d follow you, even if you’re wrong, and I meant it._ He considered that last thought in the context of his life.   
  
_I am so fucked._


	9. The Galactic Game

Over the next several days, John had to watch himself closely to make sure that his behaviour around Sherlock didn’t cross the fine line from tactile and friendly into romantic. He was usually fine with hugging, holding hands, and just curling up on the couch together, but occasionally he would catch himself dropping his head down as if to give Sherlock a kiss or opening his mouth to casually drop the word ‘love’ in conversation. It was frustrating, and he worried that Sherlock was compiling the series of instances in his photographic memory for examination.  
  
But, maybe he didn’t have anything to worry about: Sherlock didn’t have a perfect memory, John found out two weeks later – or rather, he didn’t have a perfect memory all of the time. “What do you mean, ‘Who’s Connie Prince?’ We watched her television show a couple of days ago; you spent most of it mocking her ‘aesthetic sense of appeal,’ if I remember correctly.” John stared at the alien in the bathroom mirror as he finished shaving.   
  
“Did we?” Sherlock asked mildly. “I must have deleted it. I’ve only got so much storage space; the show must have been worse than useless. Why bother keeping it?”   
  
“Hold on,” John said, wiping his face clean of the remainder of cream. “You ‘deleted it?’ What does that mean? You’re not a computer.”   
  
Sherlock held his hand out flat between them. “No, but it does make an apt analogy. My memory is my skin, right? So if I start to run out of places to store information, I have to overwrite other memories.”   
  
“Your memory is in your _skin?”_   
  
“Of course.” Pausing for a second, brow furrowed, Sherlock asked, “Isn’t yours?”   
  
“I – No. It’s in our brains. For that matter, do you even have a brain?” John slid past Sherlock and grabbed two shirts from his room.   
  
“Not as you would understand it; no. My entire body is my brain, essentially.” Sherlock formed a ball over his hand, holding it several centimeters above his palm by a thin stalk. “I store my memories in my form; this is my memory of the training I had to go through before leaving my planet for yours.” He reabsorbed the ball back into his hand. “I’ve got limited storage space – approximately equivalent to about three exabytes. On occasion, it becomes necessary to delete unimportant memories to open space for new ones.”   
  
“Exabytes?” John asked. _Hey, if I’m lucky, he’ll have been deleting my near-admissions of love._   
  
“One exabyte is one thousand petabytes, which is equal to one thousand terabytes.” Sherlock trailed off at the blank expression on John’s face, and he sighed. “It’s a lot,” he summarized.   
  
John shook his head, amazed, and wondered how Sherlock could still surprise him like this after knowing each other for so long. “Unbelievable. Well, as you can’t remember what Connie Prince said about colour-coordination, I’ll have to depend on my own faulty memory and your fashion sense,” he teased. “Should I wear the blue shirt or the beige?”   
  
“The beige, of course,” Sherlock informed him, already devolving back into a puddle. “Though why you’re even bothering for a brunch with _Anderson,_ I don’t know,” he added just before his torso dissolved.   
  
“Sally’s going to be there, too, Sherlock; besides, didn’t we agree that you wouldn’t insult Alan anymore?” John asked, exasperated.   
  
Sherlock folded over on himself in a gesture John had figured out equated to ‘Whatever.’ John pulled on the beige shirt, rolling his eyes at Sherlock. The alien wrapped around his lower body and deposited him in the sitting room, where he pulled John’s coat over his shoulders while John checked his phone to make sure that there had been no change in plans. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” John told Sherlock. “Try not to blow anything up while I’m gone, yeah?”

The alien rippled gently, but John still hadn’t forgiven him for leaving an unlabeled container of sulfuric acid in the fridge. John had thought it was water and put some salt into it for cooking; thankfully, Sherlock had seen him and snatched him away from the container before the resulting hydrochloric acid gas could come in contact with his skin. They’d had a long discussion about proper safety procedures after that. After all, only one of them was an indestructible life form, and it wasn’t John.

* * *

“So, how’s the Freak?” Sally greeted. She and Alan were seated in one of the booths near the back when John arrived.  
  
John glared mildly at Sally. “We’ve talked about this already,” he reminded her.   
  
“And I told you to think of it as a term of endearment, if it makes you feel better,” she replied. “It’d be weird to just call him ‘Sherlock’ after so long; I think he’s come to expect it from me.”   
  
“That doesn’t make it any less rude,” John protested, taking a seat. “Morning, Alan.”   
  
“Morning, John. How’s life with Holmes going?” Alan handed him a menu from the pile on the end of the table. “Sally and I already know what we’re getting.”   
  
“I’m thinking some tea and eggs with toast sound lovely right now,” John said, flipping over the pages. “And, it’s about as average as life can be with a Holmes.”   
  
“Which means that you’re probably picking human fingers out of your food, right?” Sally teased. John raised an eyebrow at her in silent rebuke, and she rolled her eyes. “Come on; you remember that night with the cabby? There were eyeballs in the microwave.”   
  
“There have been a couple of mishaps,” John admitted, “but it’s all fine. After we talked about it a few weeks ago, he hasn’t brought any body parts into the flat.” He glanced up at them and waited for Alan to take a sip of his drink before he added in a deadpan, “All I had to do was agree to stand in for the cadavers.”   
  
Alan choked on the water, and John snickered. “That’s not funny,” Sally informed him, lips twitching into a grin despite herself. “I could see him doing that.”   
  
“He wouldn’t,” John assured her, placing the menu to the side. “He still goes to the morgue and gets one of the coroners to let him at the corpses there.”   
  
The waitress came and took their orders then; they passed the time with anecdotes and settled into the relaxed atmosphere. The food was good, if not particularly memorable, and even after they’d finished eating they continued chatting and catching up. They’d been in the restaurant for a couple of hours when John’s phone buzzed, and he excused himself as he checked the text.   
  
_I’m fine, John. Mycroft is here.  
-SH_   
  
His confusion must have shown on his face because Alan leaned towards him with a raised eyebrow. “Everything alright?” he asked.   
  
“I’m not sure,” John said, showing them the text. “Mycroft’s his older brother,” he explained, “but I don’t know what prompted Sherlock to send the text in the first place.”   
  
Alan’s face darkened, and John remembered the man’s fear that Mycroft was drugging Sherlock. He shook his head subtly, and Alan nodded; some of the worry cleared from his expression. _They promised me that they wouldn’t do any testing without telling me first,_ he comforted himself. _They wouldn’t have injected Sherlock with something potentially harmful._ Now that the table was quiet as they contemplated what could have caused the seemingly random text, John heard the news from the telly in the corner; one of the phrases caught his ear.   
  
_“…massive explosion in Central London.”_ John whipped his head up to stare, aghast, as the anchorman described the situation. The picture on the screen turned over to a live reporter, and John recognized Baker Street.   
  
“Oh my God,” he breathed. Sally and Alan turned to stare at the television over their shoulders, and he saw them tense as they realized what had happened. _He’s fine,_ John reassured himself. _He sent me a text already; he’s fine and Mycroft’s with him._ His heart stopped pounding quite as hard, but it didn’t stop racing in panic.

“Let’s go,” Sally said, dropping enough money to pay the bill on the table. “We took a bus here; we’ll grab a cab.” They filed out of the restaurant and grabbed the first cab that came by; it couldn’t move quickly enough. John pulled out his phone and texted Sherlock as they pulled away from the curb.  
  
 _Just saw it on the news. I’m on my way back with Sally and Alan. You’re alright?  
  
Yes. Some damage to the flat, but so far no one was hurt.  
-SH_  
  
John sighed in relief and relayed the information to the other two. They sat in tense silence for the remainder of the ride, broken only by a phone call for Sally. “Donovan here.… I know; I’m with Anderson and John Watson; we’re taking him back to Baker Street now.… Yes, sir. Anderson and I will be there in a few minutes.” She hung up and told them, “Lestrade’s been there already; he’s already sent the first round of evidence back to the station for analysis. Alan, he wants us to report to the station as soon as we get John back.”  
  
Alan nodded acknowledgement, and John turned his head to stare out the window, mentally urging the cabby to go faster.

* * *

Alan and Sally waited just long enough to watch him enter the flat before telling the cabby to take them to the police station. John saw the taxi begin to drive away from the corner of his eye as he closed the door behind him and raced up the stairs. The street outside had been littered with rubble, and the building across from 221B had a huge hole in its façade. “Sherlock?” he called, pushing the door open.  
  
Mycroft was leaning on his umbrella by the window, staring at the damaged building across from them; Sherlock had a violin in his lap, which he was stroking forlornly; John breathed a sigh of relief and felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease; he looked unharmed. “The windows were shattered by the explosion,” he informed John, as if John couldn’t have figured that out by looking at the broken glass scattered over their floor. “Beyond the damage to the furniture due to shards of glass, the only other casualty was my violin. It was right in front of the window.”   
  
Upon closer examination, John realized that the violin had been snapped in half; Sherlock was holding it together, but the neck was only attached to the body by the strings. “Were you hurt?” he asked, shifting his focus back to Sherlock.   
  
“Of course not,” Sherlock denied. “The glass wasn’t nearly hard enough to actually cut me.”   
  
“Right.” John turned to Mycroft, who was still staring out the window. “What are you doing?”   
  
“Something’s happening,” Mycroft murmured, a ripple running over his visible skin. “Thousands of individual events winding together, and they all come down to this.” He rippled again, harder. “I’ve been catching hints of something big – a web of seeming coincidences – but I haven’t a clue what will come next.” A few tentacles shot from around his clothing and writhed around each other in agitation. John jumped at the uncharacteristic display of frustration, and Mycroft immediately regained his control. “Sorry.”   
  
Sherlock peered at his brother for a second before extending a hand to him; they held each other for several moments before Mycroft shook his head and stepped away from the window. “Are you alright?” John asked. He got a perfectly faked smile for his efforts.   
  
“Yes, of course,” Mycroft assured him. “I’m merely experiencing some irritation at my work; someone is stirring up trouble, but I’ve been having trouble predicting the next move. It’s nothing for you to worry about.” John could see the almost constant vibration from where he stood; Mycroft was more anxious than he was letting on. “I should be getting back to work, actually. It’s good to see you, John.”   
  
The alien brushed a hand over John’s hair on the way out, and John turned to watch him leave, bemused. “Right. You, too.” He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock when the ground-floor door shut. “He seemed rather stressed.”   
  
“He is. Mycroft’s been seeing patterns in his analyses, but he doesn’t know what’s going on,” Sherlock explained, placing the violin back in its case and closing the lid. “It’s making him nervous.”   
  
“Ah.” John looked over the mildly destroyed flat. “I’ll get a broom, then, shall I?”

They spent the remainder of the morning cleaning up the damage from the explosion: John gathered the broken glass and swept it into a garbage bag, and Sherlock readjusted the furniture that had been displaced by the force of the blast. When he finished that, he covered the broken windows with cardboard and fabric to keep out the dust and rubble that had blown in from across the street.  
  
After John had tied the last bag closed, he stretched and collapsed back into his armchair. Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop and curled up on the sofa; John could just make out a search engine on the screen. “What are you looking up?” he asked.   
  
“Violin repair,” Sherlock replied, nodding to the violin case. He pulled out his phone and placed the call, arranging for an appointment in two weeks. “Thank you,” he told the employee, and he hung up.   
  
The phone had barely made it back to Sherlock’s pocket when it started ringing; eyebrow raised, John watched as the alien answered. “Sherlock Holmes. …Of course.” He stood up and tugged John back to his feet. “It’s Lestrade; I’ve been summoned. Let’s go!”   
  
With a last look around the flat, now cleaned, John shrugged into his jacket and followed the alien out the door. 

* * *

Sally was sitting at her desk when they walked by; she gave John and Sherlock a once-over and nodded at him. In Lestrade’s office, the detective inspector told them that the explosion wasn’t, in fact, a gas leak like they’d all thought. He handed Sherlock an envelope, explaining that it had come from a strongbox – the only thing to survive the explosion intact.  
  
“You haven’t opened it yet?” Sherlock verified.   
  
“It’s addressed to you, isn’t it? We X-rayed it; it’s not booby trapped.”   
  
“How reassuring.” Sherlock examined the envelope before opening it and catching the cellular phone that fell out. It was a smartphone with a very familiar pink case.   
  
“That’s the phone – the pink phone,” John managed to get through his shock. _What’s it doing here and not in evidence?_   
  
“What, Jennifer Wilson’s phone?” Lestrade asked.   
  
“No, it’s not the same phone; this one’s brand new. Someone’s gone through a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, though, which means that whoever sent it knows more than he should about that case.”   
  
There was a message on the phone; Sherlock played it, and there were four short tones followed by a longer one. “Was that it?” John asked.   
  
“No, that’s not it.” Sherlock turned the phone so that Lestrade and John could see the screen. There was an image of a conference room.   
  
“I’ve seen that place before,” Lestrade muttered. He snapped his fingers. “That’s the Central Hall Westminster; someone was murdered there a few days ago. Five pips and a picture of a conference hall; what are we supposed to make of that?”   
  
Sherlock turned to Lestrade and ordered, “Get me all of the information on that murder that you can; the five pips are a warning. It’s going to happen again. We need to go to the Central Hall Westminster and figure out why we’ve been sent there.” He strode out of the office.   
  
“Wait,” John said, running after him. “Warnings of what? What’s going to happen again?”   
  
The alien turned to him, features slightly blurred around the edges, and replied, “Boom!”

* * *

“The victim’s name was Carl Powers,” Lestrade explained as they stepped into the conference hall. He told them that Powers was a journalist for a fairly unreliable magazine – “One of those sensationalists, you know?” – and that he’d been at the Central Hall Westminster for a convention on alien life. John whipped his head around so quickly that he thought he’d sprained his neck; Lestrade didn’t notice and continued reading the file. “He was found dead in one of the restrooms. He’d been shot, execution-style. We haven’t found any leads on his murderer, but the other convention-goers tell us that he very vocally believed in aliens; they called him a true believer. We think he may have claimed conspiracy theory to the wrong person, and the murderer took offense to it.” He shrugged at John’s incredulous expression. “Murders have occurred for stranger reasons.”  
  
“Interesting,” Sherlock said. “Show me where his body was found.”

The restroom was still roped off, so Lestrade stopped in shock and stared at the laptop lying accusingly in the center of the floor. “That wasn’t there when I was here last,” he said.  
  
“Which means that someone wants me to find it,” Sherlock agreed, kneeling to get a closer look.   
  
“Careful, Sherlock.” John reminded him, “He’s a bomber.” They watched, tense, as Sherlock opened the laptop and booted it up. The phone rang at the exact moment that the screen flickered on, making everyone jump.   
  
Sherlock stood and pulled the phone from his pocket. “The number’s blocked,” he told them as he answered, placing the call on speakerphone. “Hello?”   
  
The woman on the other end was crying. “Hello, Sherlock.”   
  
John exchanged glances with Lestrade when she revealed that someone else was using her as a living voice changer. “Jesus,” Lestrade muttered, turning his face away. John was inclined to agree: The poor woman sounded absolutely terrified. His gut clenched in sympathy, but he listened silently as she relayed the bomber’s threats.   
  
“This is between the two of us; why don’t you tell that pretty detective inspector of yours to go away? Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock,” she told him, “or I’m going to kill her, too.” She hung up.   
  
Sherlock stared at the phone for a second before scooping up the laptop. “We need to figure out who killed Carl Powers,” he said, “and we need to do it quickly.”   
  
Pale, Lestrade nodded. “Bring it back to the station; we’ll have the computer technicians take a look at it. The laptop’s got to be a clue.”   
  
“No,” the alien said, shaking his head. “It has to be me; just me. Didn’t you hear what she said? I can’t have help from the police.” He brushed past Lestrade, and John hurried to follow. “I’ll call you when I’ve found something!” he shouted over his shoulder as he strode out the door.   
  
John hailed a cab, and Sherlock rippled against his arm as he realized that the user’s profile – Carl Powers’ – was password protected. “You hacked my laptop,” John reminded him after giving the cabby their address. “It shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?”   
  
“I’d already known you for over a year, total; I had a much better idea of your psyche. There were only a few passwords I had to try before I got the right one. I’ve never met Carl Powers – I’ve never even heard of him. How am I supposed to guess his password?” Rippling violently underneath his coat – his face remained smooth – Sherlock flipped the computer closed and stared out the window. “There’s got to be more information about him on the internet. I can figure it out.”   
  
“I know you will.” John laid a hand over Sherlock’s neck and kneaded it gently. Sherlock glanced at him and forced a quick smile before turning back to the window. The rest of the ride passed in tense silence.

* * *

The alien commandeered John’s laptop within seconds of stepping into the flat, and he ensconced himself in the middle of the couch with the two computers on either side. “Is there anything I can do to help?” John asked, shifting his weight in the doorway.  
  
“No, this is really more of a one-person job,” Sherlock replied, one hand flattened and typing frantically into John’s laptop. “Thank you, though.”   
  
John watched for a few seconds more before shaking his head. “Right.” He puttered around the flat for several minutes, trying not to disturb Sherlock, before giving up and grabbing his jacket from the coat hanger. “If there’s nothing I can do here, I think I’ll head down to the police station and see if I can lend a helping hand there.”   
  
Sherlock glanced up at him and grimaced. “Yes, sorry; you must be feeling anxious. Go ahead; I’ll call you if anything comes up.” John was halfway out the door when Sherlock called after him, “Oh, would you ask Lestrade to pull any files on Carl Powers and send them to me? Any information is valuable.”

Making a mental note to do so, John headed for the tube.

* * *

The station was in a state of organized chaos when he arrived: The explosion across the street from 221B was still generating work for the officers who’d been called to the scene. John offered his assistance to one of the harried secretaries, and he spent the next several hours handling phone calls and filling out forms. When things started to calm and return to a level of normal, he managed to find Lestrade, but the detective inspector’s reaction to seeing him wasn’t what he’d expected.  
  
“John?” the man asked, coming to a complete stop. “What are you doing here? I thought you were with Sherlock!” His brows furrowed in frustration, and John blinked in confusion.   
  
“I was,” he agreed, “but he’s just sitting there trying to crack Powers’ password. I decided to come in and see if there was anything I could do to help you.”   
  
Lestrade groaned and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I was rather counting on you to watch him and keep him in line,” he admitted. “He’s right: The hostage said that we couldn’t help him, but I’d feel better if we had a police presence with him, anyway.”   
  
_And, that was supposed to be me. Oops._ “Well, he did ask me to see if you had any information on Carl Powers.”   
  
The DI led him to his office and pulled a file from the cabinet. “There’s not a lot,” he warned. “We’d barely started investigating his death when the bomb went off.” He handed the folder to John. “Here, take it with you and go back to Baker Street. Keep me informed on what Sherlock’s up to, will you?”   
  
John agreed and headed back to Sherlock. He sent a text on his way out of the station.   
  
_On my way. I have the file on Carl Powers._   
  
It took an unusual three minutes for Sherlock to respond.   
  
_Excellent. Cracked the login password, but most of the files are encrypted or password-protected as well.  
-SH_   
  
Powers’ file turned out to be mostly useless, but Sherlock made quicker headway through the other passwords. “He’s running on a system,” Sherlock explained. “The password for the entire computer was ‘G414xyQu357’ – Galaxy Quest. Each password is the title of a popular science-fiction movie or television show with several numbers substituted for letters. So far, I’ve matched ‘574r7r3k,’ ‘574rW4r5,’ ‘D0c73rWh0,’ ‘70rchw00d,’ and ‘574rg473’ to their proper files.”   
  
“Find anything useful?” John leaned against the back of the sofa so that he could read the screen over Sherlock’s shoulder.   
  
“Not yet. The man seems to have been extraordinarily paranoid; why so many passwords?”   
  
“Maybe he was hiding something? Maybe that’s what got him killed, not his conspiracy theories?”   
  
“Perhaps.” John left Sherlock to his work and made himself a late lunch. He loitered around the flat, prompting Sherlock with popular sci-fi titles when needed, and felt his nerves wind tighter as the twelve-hour mark drifted closer.   
  
Seven hours after the hostage call, Sherlock snarled and shoved himself away from the computer. “There’s nothing there!” he growled, pacing the room. “I’ve unlocked every file, and there’s nothing that would explain why Carl Powers was murdered!”   
  
John let the alien take a few laps around the room, skin rippling dangerously, before he stepped into his path and wrapped him up in a hug. “You’ll figure it out,” he assured Sherlock, trying to ignore the violent shudders against his cheek. “Just think: There must be something that we’re missing.” _There’s got to be something. What’s the point of giving Sherlock the crime if there’s no solution?_ He swallowed heavily, thinking of the hostage. _There must be an answer._   
  
The ripples slowly died down, and Sherlock buried his face in John’s hair. John inhaled sharply, hoping that the alien would chalk up the increased tempo of his heartbeat to stress over the entire situation. “I don’t understand,” Sherlock complained. “I’m meant to solve it; why give me the computer, unless it’s a lead?”   
  
“Maybe there’s a puzzle in the computer that you need to solve?” John suggested hesitantly. “Some sort of clue that will lead you to the next thing?”

The alien went perfectly still in John’s arms before bursting into motion. “The clues – the passwords! That’s it! Oh, John, you’re brilliant. Why didn’t I realize it earlier?”  
  
“Glad to be of help,” John murmured, following Sherlock to the computer. “What have you realized, exactly?”   
  
“The numbers, John; the _numbers!_ It’s a part of the code, too; it’s not just for security purposes. Look.” He pointed to the screen, and John read the computer information displayed. “There’s a full two gigabytes that’s completely unaccounted for; I’d noticed the discrepancy earlier, but now it makes sense!” He opened a text document and typed in the passwords he’d used to access Powers’ files. All of the letters went into one line, and the numbers went into another.   
  
“What makes sense?”   
  
“It’s a hidden file.” Sherlock pulled up the command prompt and ran a search for the string of letters: _‘GXYQURRKRWRDCRWHRCHWDRG.’_ No files were found, so Sherlock switched a few letters around and tried again. “I had them in the wrong order,” he explained. “The titles should have been alphabetically organized.” This time, the computer found a file. “Excellent,” the alien breathed. “So if the letters are the file name,” he said, opening the file, “then the numbers are the password to access it.” He typed them into the field that appeared.   
  
The document that opened on the screen was filled with graphics and text alike; John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder in congratulations and grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”   
  
Sherlock scanned through the contents of the file and leaned back against John’s hand, eyes wide. “If this is accurate, I know why Powers was killed.” He pulled out his phone and texted his brother. “Mycroft can confirm or deny the information.” John read the text on the screen and felt his gut twist with nerves.   
  
_You need to come over. Now.  
-SH_   
  
“Should I call Lestrade?” John asked, already reaching for his phone.   
  
“Yes; tell him that Powers was killed because he exposed a conspiracy between several governments and that I’ve already informed the relevant authorities.”

* * *

“This is most disheartening,” Mycroft said bleakly as he reviewed the file on Carl Powers’ laptop. His posture drooped, and his features seemed flatter somehow. It was almost as if he hadn’t bothered to form the textures as intricately as he usually did. “I’d had high hopes for some of these politicians; to find out that they’ve formed a political machine to keep themselves in power at the detriment of the people….” He sighed and repeated, “Most disheartening.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” John apologized. Even if he hadn’t personally done anything wrong, his people had. Powers had uncovered a bribery scheme between some major powers in the UK, the States, China, and Russia; the hidden file on his computer was the compilation of all the evidence he’d found. There were photographs, transcripts of conversations and copies of emails. John wished that it had been just the ramblings of a conspiracy theorist, but Mycroft confirmed that the situation explained several of the trends he’d found in his analyses.   
  
Mycroft reached behind him and ran his hand down John’s arm to rest on his wrist. “Not your fault,” he reminded him. “It’s why I’m here. I’ll take care of it.” He loaded the information onto a USB stick and bumped against Sherlock on the way out. “If you need me, you know where to find me,” he said.   
  
John watched him go and frowned. _He looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders,_ he thought. It was a struggle to not feel crushed by guilt on behalf of his species. A hand dropped onto his, and he turned to look at Sherlock. “We knew it wouldn’t be easy,” the alien told him. “We knew that there would be days when it seems impossible to bring peace, but we chose to come anyway. You can’t blame yourself for the actions of others, John. It’ll be okay in the end.” He pulled John closer and brought their foreheads together. “I promise.”

 _You can’t promise what you don’t control,_ John thought, but he felt the tension easing nonetheless. Sherlock smiled for him and released him to go to John’s laptop. “We need to tell our bomber that we’ve solved the case,” he said; “stop the clock. I can’t call him back on the phone, so we’ll have to hope that he’s paying attention to my website.”   
  
“Your website?” John asked. “Why would he be watching your website? Hell, why would he even know it exists in the first place?”   
  
“First off,” Sherlock said, pulling up _The Science of Deduction,_ “he’s aiming this at me. That means that he’ll have researched me as much as possible.” John suppressed the shiver of worry at that. “Then there’s the message that was left after that case with the smuggling ring; do you remember?”   
  
“It was signed anonymously, though,” John pointed out as he watched the screen over Sherlock’s shoulder. “You think that was the bomber?”   
  
“I’m almost certain of it,” Sherlock agreed. He posted the information to his forum – _Congratulations to Mr. Powers for exposing the political machinations between four different nations, and shame to American Senator Robera for ordering his death_ – and only had to wait a few minutes before the pink phone rang. They exchanged a glance, and Sherlock pulled the phone out of his pocket. “Hello?”   
  
The crying woman was on the other end of the line. “Well done, you; come and get me.” She took a broken, gasping breath. “Please, come and get me.”   
  
Sherlock got the woman’s location, and John relayed it to Lestrade. Within twenty minutes, Lestrade called him back to let them know that she was safe and unharmed – beyond the mental trauma of being strapped to a bomb for eight hours, of course.

* * *

Sherlock managed to bully Lestrade into giving him the phone for the duration of the case by reminding him that the phone had been addressed to him and the bomber had stated that hostages would die if he handed the case over. The detective inspector grumbled about it, but he caved with a pointed look at John. “You’ve got time off until this case is finished,” he told John. “Keep an eye on him.”  
  
After establishing that Sherlock was in control of the investigation, John took the alien back home and sat him on the sofa. “Alright,” he said. “Explain. Everything that you know. What’s going on? Why has a terrorist targeted you? Why kidnap a woman who has nothing to do with this and deck her out in explosives?”   
  
“The woman was a go-between so that we wouldn’t be able to trace his voice or the phone call,” Sherlock began. “It’s possible that she has crossed him before, or perhaps she was simply a random choice. I don’t know. If my suspicions are correct, the terrorist is the anonymous poster on my website; obviously, Mycroft and I have interfered with his plans in the past. He’s got enough influence to get information on the cabby case, too, which is how he got the description of the phone.”   
  
“If he’s going against you and Mycroft and he still hasn’t gotten caught, then he’s very good.” John collapsed rather heavily into the armchair. “Christ, Sherlock. This is bad. What if he’s figured out that you’re an alien? Carl Powers was at an alien-life convention when he died, and all of his passwords had to do with alien-based sci-fi movies.” His vision sharpened as adrenaline began to pump through him.   
  
Sherlock snorted and waved John’s concerns away. “I’ve told you, John: I’m careful. Powers was killed because he’d uncovered a scheme. The alien convention was just a coincidence. Honestly, who would jump from ‘strange’ to ‘alien?’ Relax.”   
  
_That’s one hell of a coincidence,_ John thought darkly, but he kept his silence. _I’ll just have to keep a closer eye on him._ “If you say so.”   
  
“Anyway, we’ve still got four pips to go. You should eat; it’s already nine in the evening, and there’s no telling when the next call will come. I don’t want you to collapse from hunger.” The alien stood and moved towards the door. “Would you like to eat out, or should I order in for you?”   
  
“Order in, please.” He was still feeling paranoid about a mysterious bomber discovering Sherlock’s secret. “How about some pasta?”

“Angelo’s it is, then,” Sherlock agreed. He pulled his phone and texted the restaurant. “Spaghetti alright with you?”  
  
John ordered ravioli instead; he hadn’t had it in a while. Angelo didn’t deliver the food personally, thank goodness – John would have hidden in the bathroom if he had, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. After the realization at the London Zoo several weeks before, he wouldn’t have been able to hide a reaction when Angelo inevitably referenced his and Sherlock’s supposedly romantic relationship. And, he knew, any reaction like that in front of Sherlock would be essentially the same as declaring his love for the alien to his face.  
  
He wasn’t prepared to take that step. He doubted that he ever would be.  
  
The ravioli was of a quality that he’d come to expect from Angelo’s; that, combined with the impromptu massage that Sherlock gave him when he mentioned his tension, helped him relax enough to drift off to a light slumber in the armchair. A sense of motion lifted him to a drowsy state of semi-consciousness, and he forced his eyes open just enough to see the ceiling drifting by. Sherlock’s distinct skin texture caressed the bare skin of his scalp and palms, and he realized that the alien was carrying him to bed. _Even if we’ll never be together, at least I know he cares for me. That will have to be enough.  
  
Alright, then,_ he thought, eyes drifting shut again. Through the daze of his disconnect, he felt Sherlock slip his outerwear off and redress him in his pajamas before laying him on the bed. The contact disappeared, save for a tendril around his wrist. Just as his mind fell back into sleep, he thought he felt a second tendril brush down his forehead and stroke his face before disappearing.  
  
When he woke the next morning, he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it or not.

* * *

John had been awake and dressed for a little over an hour when the second pip came. “That’s a tombstone,” he said, somewhat horrified. “Over a freshly-dug grave.”  
  
“A freshly-dug grave in Kensal Green Cemetery, to be exact,” Sherlock agreed. “Look: That building in the background is the mortuary chapel.” He answered the phone when it rang and put it on speakerphone with a glance at John. “Hello?”   
  
“You can get some help from the police for this one,” a young man stuttered. _The second hostage._ “Wouldn’t want you breaking the law, would we?”   
  
“No, we wouldn’t,” Sherlock agreed, exchanging a puzzled look with John.   
  
“But, I told you that this was between you and me. That old army doctor is still following you around.”   
  
John tensed. _I’m not leaving him to deal with this alone._ Happily, Sherlock seemed to be in agreement. “He’s my assistant,” he explained. “I can’t work without him.” A small ripple spread from his fingertips.   
  
The reply was long in coming. “No,” the hostage finally said. “I suppose you can’t. Keep him along, then.” John let out a sigh of relief. “I know the last puzzle wasn’t really your area – it was all about hacking computers – so I tailored this one to be a bit more relevant to your interests. You have eight hours.” The hostage hung up.   
  
“Kensal Green Cemetery; let’s go, John,” Sherlock said, springing into action. They hurried out the door and grabbed a taxi.

* * *

Finding the particular tombstone was fairly easy: Sherlock used the angle of the photograph to lead them directly to it. Once they got there, however, John was at a loss as to what they should do. “Victor Trevor,” John read from the gravestone. “Are we supposed to figure out what happened to him?”  
  
“Possibly,” Sherlock said, tapping away at his phone. “But I don’t think so. According to the obituary, Victor Trevor died of lung cancer – hardly a suspicious death. The bomber told us that we would need the police, or we would be breaking the law.” He knelt in the fresh dirt over the grave and dug a hand under the surface.   
  
“What are you doing?” John asked, crouching beside the alien.   
  
“Searching,” Sherlock replied. “Grave-digging is very much illegal, so I’m searching to see if there’s anything suspicious before we call Lestrade to authorize the exhumation of the grave.” He froze suddenly before pulling his hand back. “And, I’ve found it. There’s another body buried beneath the casket. A woman.”

Lestrade came quickly enough when they called him, and he managed to get enough pull on the cemetery caretaker to have the grave dug out again. “You’d better be right about this,” he muttered to Sherlock as they watched the dirt pile up.  
  
“I am,” Sherlock assured him. He directed the workers to pull up the casket and look beneath it; the uncovered corpse was still in fairly good shape, all things considered. “We need to get this to the morgue; I want first look at it,” he told Lestrade.   
  
“I’ll help him,” John offered when the DI looked reluctant. “In fact, I’ll do the autopsy; Sherlock can direct me.” _If I’m the doctor, I might as well do my part._   
  
“Alright,” Lestrade grumbled. “But, make sure that you document everything by the book. We’ll use your report as the official examination.” He called for transport for the body, and John and Sherlock got a ride back to the morgue at St. Bart’s.

* * *

After he and Molly had documented the exterior features of the body and had it cleaned, John stood by the corpse’s head in his scrubs and brushed through the long hair. “There’s a bald patch here,” he noted; “it’s been shaved, and there are stitches – looks like brain surgery, actually.” He pulled the hair away and held it so that Molly could take a photograph. “These look very recent.”  
  
“Based on decomposition of the body, she’s only been dead for about a week,” Molly agreed. “You said that the casket on top of her was only put in four days ago, right?”   
  
“That’s correct,” Sherlock said, sweeping around the room to look over John’s shoulder. He was under strict orders to not touch anything, but he could look all he liked. “What was the brain surgery for?”   
  
John wracked his memory for information on brain surgery – _I’m a trauma doctor, not a neuroscientist._ “The incisions would put us somewhere on the frontal lobe, just in front of the parietal lobe. If we can get identification on her, we can look up her medical records.”   
  
Sherlock drifted down the body, peering at teeth, fingernails, and feet. “She was homeless,” he revealed. “Living on the streets, there’s no way she would have been able to afford brain surgery.”   
  
The door to the morgue opened abruptly, and a pale man in a grey T-shirt walked in. “Oh, Jim! Hi,” Molly exclaimed, flustered. She stripped off her gloves and gave him a kiss. “Come in; come in.”   
  
“Sorry,” the man apologized. “I didn’t realize that I was interrupting.” He followed Molly further into the morgue; John and Sherlock exchanged a bemused glance. _Molly’s dating?_   
  
“Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes,” she introduced, “and one of my sometimes-coworkers, John Watson. Jim works in IT upstairs; that’s how we met. Office romance.” She looked singularly uneasy, and Jim smiled at her and wrapped an arm over her shoulders.   
  
“Hi,” John greeted. Sherlock nodded at the man, narrowing his eyes as he looked him over.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Jim breathed, staring at him. John felt a pang of annoyance at being ignored, but shoved it down. “I’ve heard all about you. Are you on one of your cases?” He released Molly and took a few steps closer, brow creasing as he looked at the corpse, and John suppressed a warning to avoid contaminating the body.   
  
“Mm, yes,” Sherlock agreed, dismissing the man. He turned back to the dead woman and bent to examine the stitches in the head. “John, the bone underneath the stitches is protruding a bit.”   
  
“Really?” That didn’t fit with what he knew about brain surgery. “The bone should have been reattached cleanly at the end.” He palpated it gently, and the bone shifted easily under his fingers. “It isn’t braced.” _That’s fucking dangerous; it could have slipped and damaged the brain!_   
  
Jim spoke from just behind John’s shoulder, making him jump in surprise. “Must have been a bad surgeon,” he quipped. Molly laughed awkwardly at the bad joke, and Sherlock turned to raise an eyebrow at the interloper.   
  
“This must be boring you,” Sherlock hinted. “Autopsies aren’t exactly computer repairs. I’m sure Molly will be able to tell you all about it in a few hours, should you wish.”

“Ah, right,” Jim said, taking a step back. “I’ll just be going, then.” He turned to leave, but his foot caught on one of the legs of the autopsy table and he crashed into Sherlock. John’s heart stopped as they went down, Jim on top – _Oh fuck, he’s going to feel Sherlock’s skin_ – and he yanked his gloves off before pulling the man up.  
  
Sherlock’s wide eyes had lost some of their definition in surprise and fright, but he waved off the man’s profuse apologies. “I think you should be going,” John said, barely holding back a snarl as he helped the alien to his feet. Molly tugged Jim away and out the door, grimacing at her boyfriend, and John leaned closer to Sherlock. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Did he touch you?”  
  
“His hand landed on my hair when we landed,” Sherlock said, shaking his head, “but I don’t think he noticed anything. He didn’t react, at least.” His features snapped back into focus, and he turned back to the body. “So. We’ve got a dead homeless woman who’d recently had brain surgery – poorly-performed brain surgery, no less. Was that the cause of death?”  
  
John shook his head and returned his focus to the corpse. “Possibly. Fobbed brain surgery wouldn’t necessarily lead to death, but it could. I’ll have to have a look inside of her skull to be sure.”  
  
Molly returned shortly with an apology for her boyfriend; Sherlock waved it off, and they continued the autopsy. It turned out that while the cerebral cortex had taken a major beating – the part just under the scar looked closer to oatmeal than any sort of organic tissue – based on the state of her esophagus and stomach, the woman had died later due to ingesting an unknown poison. “Interesting,” Sherlock had called it. “Are there any traces of it left in her system?”  
  
“Yeah, we’ll extract some blood for you to analyze.” After they’d determined everything they could from the autopsy, Sherlock took the sample and headed for the chemistry labs.  
  
“I’m so sorry about Jim,” Molly said again. “He’s really a wonderful guy; I think he just got flustered. I told him all about Sherlock, you know, and he’s really awed. But, I know that Sherlock doesn’t like being touched, and he fell all over him like that.” She looked like she was about to cry; John winced.  
  
“It’s fine,” he reassured her. “We all have our moments.” They packed up the body and placed it in storage for a proper burial. “I’d better get back to Sherlock, but don’t worry about it.”  
  
He fled the morgue and texted Sherlock to get directions to the particular lab he was in; when he arrived, Sherlock was busy running tests on the poison. “How’s it going?” John asked.  
  
The alien looked up at him and rolled his eyes. “I’ve literally just started, John; it’s overly-optimistic to expect results this quickly. We’ll likely be here for several hours.”  
  
It had already been almost three hours since the hostage called – autopsies weren’t known for being quick. “We’re cutting this one pretty close, aren’t we?” He took a seat on one of the other stools in the room.  
  
“In all probability, yes,” Sherlock agreed. “While I’m working on this, would you see if you can get some sort of identification on the girl? If nothing else, any relatives she may have will likely want to know that she’s dead.”  
  
John grimaced. “I’ll send my report to Lestrade and see if he can match it to any missing persons.”  
  
There really wasn’t much for John to do after that; he paced the room while Sherlock tried to determine the type of poison used. An hour passed, and John left for a few minutes to grab a snack from the cafeteria. He returned and stood by Sherlock, trying not to distract him, but his leg got sore, and he took a seat on the same stool as before. Another hour passed like this, with John fielding the occasional text from Lestrade checking on their progress, until Sherlock suddenly stopped moving and stared at the readout on the screen blankly. John leaned over his shoulder, but he couldn’t make sense of the pattern on the screen. “Ah, Sherlock?”  
  
“I’ve seen this before,” Sherlock muttered, leaning away from the computer. “It’s the same poison.”  
  
The hair on the back of John’s neck stood up. He hadn’t seen Sherlock go blank for this long in a while. “The same poison as what?”

“The cabby,” he explained, looking up at John. “The serial suicides-that-weren’t all took the same poison.” He gestured at the screen. “That’s it. And it’s never been used in any other case.”  
  
John’s blood ran cold. “Whoever killed her was behind the cabby.”   
  
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “And he was also behind the triad.” He considered. “In fact, I would even venture to say that he was behind Chestersire’s death. It’s quite the range of influence.” His voice remained steady, but John could see his features starting to blur together.  
  
“And, this person has been coming after you since _the cabby case?_ Hell, Sherlock! With that level of influence, we’d be insanely lucky if he _hasn’t_ figured out what you are.” John’s gut twisted in anxiety.  
  
“It’s still quite the leap from ‘unusual’ to ‘alien,’ John,” Sherlock repeated. He sounded a bit less sure of himself, though. “It’s very unlikely that he’ll have uncovered the truth. There are much likelier explanations for my oddities.”  
  
A buzz cut the tension in the air – or raised it, John wasn’t entirely sure – and John pulled out his mobile. “Lestrade texted me,” he said. “He’s found a probable match for the woman: Elizabeth West, age twenty-seven. After three attempted suicides a few years ago, she sold everything she had and moved onto the streets. Her father is the only remaining living relative; he lives in Cornwall.”  
  
“Let’s go see him, then,” Sherlock decided, clearing the workstation. He’d just pulled the door open when the pink phone started ringing; Sherlock froze before pulling it out of his pocket and answering it. “We’ve still got hours left,” he protested.  
  
“Elizabeth West isn’t important,” the hostage stammered. “She’s just a body.”  
  
“I’d imagine that she’s rather important to her father,” Sherlock said, gaze drifting to John.  
  
“But not to us. You’re following the wrong clues; talk to Dr. Hill upstairs. He’ll set you straight, if you ask the right questions.”  
  
“Why would you be giving me a clue?”  
  
“I’m not trying to trick you, Sherlock; I want you to figure it out. I’m waiting for you to find me, but you won’t if you can’t put it together.”  
  
“If you want us to meet, why don’t you come see me?” Sherlock pressed. John’s heart leapt to his throat – _Don’t bait the terrorist, Sherlock; what are you thinking?!_ – but he stayed silent.  
  
“I already see you. You just don’t see me.” The line went dead.  
  
“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” John burst out. “Did you just invite a serial bomber to seek you out?!”  
  
The alien pocketed the phone and led John from the labs. “He’s watching our communications,” he said. “He knew the moment we got the information on Elizabeth West; our phones aren’t secure anymore. He’s a lot more powerful than I thought.”   
  
He could no longer see the individual strands of Sherlock’s hair; it had blended together in the alien’s panic. John grabbed Sherlock’s arm around the coat and swung him around to face him in the empty hallway. “Sherlock, calm down.” From the front, Sherlock’s face looked like nothing more than a basic line drawing – all of the texture had gone out of it. He pulled Sherlock’s head down to rest their foreheads together, trying to brace him with physical contact. “Easy. It’s alright; we’re alright.”  
  
Sherlock clutched at him, hands framing John’s face. “Be careful,” he pled. “You’re so fragile; don’t let him touch you.”  
  
“I won’t,” John promised, willing his blush down. The intimacy of their position wasn’t exactly helping. “I’m tougher than I look; I’ll be fine.”  
  
The alien didn’t seem convinced, but his face regained its usual clarity, and he pulled away. “We’ve got just under three hours left before Moriarty kills the hostage. Let’s go talk to the doctor.”  
  
“How do you know that he’s not just giving you a false lead?” John asked, following Sherlock to the registry, where they found Dr. Hill’s office.

“I don’t.”

* * *

Dr. Hill was with a patient when they walked in, so they waited in his office for him to return. Sherlock pulled a few books from the shelves behind the desk and, with a glance at the door, skimmed through them simultaneously. John walked around the room and studied the diagrams on the wall. “Lots of information on brains in here,” he commented. “I guess we’re supposed to ask about West’s brain surgery?”  
  
“Something like that,” Sherlock agreed, replacing the books on the shelves. “Dr. Hill is a neuroscientist, it would appear. Moriarty’s led us to an expert.” He joined John and stared at the diagrams. “Where was the damage in the brain?”   
  
John pointed it out on one of the posters and turned to Sherlock just as the doctor entered the office. He gaped at the suddenly much more _feminine_ Sherlock standing beside him. “Good afternoon,” the doctor greeted, luckily unable to see John’s expression. “Please, have a seat. What can I help you with?”   
  
Before John could explain the corpse that had brought them there, Sherlock started gushing. “Dr. Hill, it’s such a pleasure to meet you!” he – she? – exclaimed, eyes wide. John noticed with morbid interest that Sherlock had pressed his – her – arms together to accentuate the newly-acquired assets. “I’m studying neuroscience – my professor is such an idiot; he clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I wanted to ask the best around, so I was hoping I could run a few theories by you?”   
  
It was an effort to keep his horror at Sherlock’s act off his face, but John managed to restrain himself to a muttered, “What the hell?” The alien had blocked his view of Dr. Hill when he – she – _it_ – started talking, so he took the seconds to pull himself together and act unsurprised.   
  
“Oh, of course,” Hill replied to Sherlock. He’d clearly been flattered by the performance. “Ask away.”   
  
“Well, there was a discussion today in my study group about the frontal lobe of the cerebral cortex, and the role each section plays in daily life. I think I got the basic idea of it, and I might have a new theory, if I understand everything correctly. What, exactly, is the function of Brodmann Area Six?”   
  
John’s mind raced, trying to place the name, but he had to admit that he was lost. Hill, on the other hand, brightened considerably. “Brodmann Area Six is an interesting part of the cerebral cortex,” he agreed. “Have you seen the recent studies on it?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Electrical stimulation in this part of the brain has caused test subjects to feel the urge to perform particular actions.”   
  
Sherlock gasped, almost bouncing in the seat with excitement. “I hadn’t read that! Amazing; what does that mean on a larger scale, then? Would we be able to manipulate the body by directly manipulating the brain?”   
  
Dr. Hill forced a grin, catching John’s attention with the obvious falseness of the action. “It hasn’t been tried yet; there are a few moral implications” – he abruptly stopped talking and stared at the two of them blankly for several seconds before resuming – “of such ‘mind control.’ Theoretically, however, that is one application.”   
  
John stared at the doctor, wondering what had just happened, but Sherlock continued speaking calmly. “Oh, yes, of course. Mustn’t be immoral,” Sherlock agreed. “I think that’s all that I need, actually; thank you for your time.” The alien tugged John to his feet and back to the door, ignoring Hill’s confused protests. “John,” he asked, decidedly male again, “what would cause someone to stop, mid-conversation, and stare at nothing while his hands shake?”   
  
“The hand-tremor could be a number of things,” John mused as they made their way through the halls. He absently noted that they were walking out of the hospital, rather than back to the morgue or the chemistry lab. “The sudden stop and restart in speech, however, is much more specific. He didn’t even notice that he’d stopped talking; did you see that?” Sherlock glanced at him, and he remembered who he was talking to. “Right. Of course you did. That tends to be a symptom of epilepsy.”   
  
“Epilepsy – I thought that usually included seizures?”

“It does. If I’m right, Dr. Hill had a petit mal seizure while he was talking to us.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m surprised it hasn’t graduated to grand mal seizures yet, considering his age, but either way we should tell him. He needs to get medical attention for it.”  
  
“There’s something more important we have to do first,” Sherlock said, leading John to the shade under a tree. One hand went under his coat and pulled out a small lab book. “He’ll probably notice that it’s missing soon,” he explained; “we need to call Lestrade and have him come to pick him up.” He pulled his phone out and started typing out a message.  
  
“What?” John took the book. “You stole this from Dr. Hill. You think he’s involved in this?”  
  
Sherlock opened the book to one of the last pages; John read a few sentences of Dr. Hill’s handwriting and felt the blood drain from his face. “Dr. Hill is the surgeon,” the alien explained while John browsed the horror story in his hands. “He was trying to prove that manipulation of Brodmann Area Six – the part of the brain that he was manipulating in West – would result in controlling the actions of the body. As he said, there are a few moral issues with this, and he certainly wouldn’t get any volunteers for the testing. I believe he was picking indigents off the street and using them as test subjects. Epileptic seizures can be triggered by high-stress situations, yes?”  
  
“Yes,” John agreed, mind whirling.  
  
“So, because of the stress of performing an illegal operation without assistants, he had a petit mal seizure during the operation, like we saw in the office; the tremor in his hand caused him to destroy a great deal of the brain matter, rather than altering it slightly as he wished to. When he realized that the subject was useless, he stitched her up with only a modicum of care and killed her before dumping her in an empty grave.”  
  
Something wasn’t adding up. “But the poison was the same that the cabby used,” John reminded him, closing the book. “How did he get it?”  
  
“Perhaps he was supplying it to the cabby,” Sherlock mused. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility.” His phone buzzed, signaling Lestrade’s response. “Good. The police will be here shortly. We’ll just wait and make sure that Dr. Hill doesn’t escape before they arrive.”  
  
There were no problems on that front; Dr. Hill apparently hadn’t noticed the missing lab book. Sherlock handed it over to Lestrade with a full explanation when he arrived before sending him in to collect the doctor. “Come on, John,” the alien urged when the man had left. “We need to get back home so that I can post the answer to the website. There are a couple of hours left, still, but I’m sure our hostage will be only too happy to be freed.”  
  
John easily agreed, feeling a pang of pity for the hostage. _He’s got to be terrified. How horrible would it be, to be helpless and reliant on the brilliance of a man you don’t even know?_ He shuddered, inciting a questioning glance from Sherlock. “It’s nothing,” he denied. _Just the danger of empathy._  
  
The man’s voice was shaking with relief when he gave his location to Sherlock; John passed it on immediately to Lestrade, who sent a bomb squad to collect him. After the adrenaline started to fade, John felt his disgust rise. “What kind of doctor does that?” he snarled. “It goes against every oath we’ve sworn!”  
  
Sherlock watched him pace around the room for several minutes, silently observing. John was just about fed up enough to misplace his anger on the alien – and he would have felt horrible for it afterwards, he knew – when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He spun around to face a tentacle holding a steaming cup of tea, and his anger deflated.  
  
“Sorry,” he apologized, accepting the tea from the tentacle. “It’s just that – he shouldn’t have done that. Doctors are supposed to be good; we’ve sworn to protect human life.” He sighed, letting his rage simmer down to weariness. “He wasn’t a doctor.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, wrapping several tentacles around John and bringing him to rest against him on the sofa. “He wasn’t.” The alien’s limbs tightened over his ribs briefly before relaxing around him. John almost forced away the warmth in his chest before deciding that he didn’t want to break the peace he felt; he accepted it, instead, and settled in against Sherlock’s side to sip his tea. _This is where I want to be,_ he thought sedately. _Love need not apply._

* * *

The rest of the day passed without another call to the pink phone, but the next morning started early. John hadn’t slept well, dreams plagued with the terrified thought of what _he_ would be like if he didn’t follow his oaths. Sherlock had needed to sooth him back to sleep from nightmarish images – _Sherlock, writhing on the floor; John pumping cocaine into his body just to see it eat at him, burning through the alien’s skin like acid_ – several times throughout the course of the night.   
  
So when the pink phone buzzed shortly after seven o’clock, John greeted it with a groan of agony. “It’s too early for this,” he grumbled, sitting beside the alien as he opened the image.   
  
“Only three pips left, counting this one,” Sherlock reassured him. “We’ll make it through, and so will everyone else.”   
  
The text showed a painting of an old city at night; John squinted at it, fighting a yawn. The phone rang a few seconds later, and Sherlock answered it. “Hello?”   
  
“This one’s a little harder,” a high voice said, voice tight with tears.   
  
“Jesus,” John breathed, suddenly wide awake as dread sank in his stomach. “It’s a kid.”   
  
The child continued, “I’ll give you eight hours, and you’re on your own this time. Your hint is the artist of the painting: Vermeer.” The line went dead.   
  
John stared at the phone for several seconds before he lurched to his feet. “He kidnapped a kid, Sherlock; Christ. I’ll tell Lestrade.” He grabbed his mobile and made the call – the detective inspector was similarly horrified. “The bomber didn’t give us permission to go to the police this time,” he warned Lestrade, “but I’ll try to keep you in the loop.” He hung up and turned to Sherlock, who’d been typing away on John’s laptop. “Do you know what we’re supposed to do?” he asked.   
  
“The painting is Vermeer’s _Delft at Dusk._ It was recovered in 1992 after being lost for several hundred years. The original is currently in the private ownership of one Nelly Underdown, situated in No. 7 Upper Belgrave Street, Westminster.”   
  
“You’re joking.” _That’s in Belgravia. I wouldn’t feel comfortable walking near there in anything less than a three-piece suit._ “We can’t just barge in on – who did you say lives there?”   
  
“Miss Nelly Underdown. She’s the only resident, as far as I can tell.” He closed the laptop and stepped into his coat and trousers. “And, as for barging in on her, we don’t really have many options.” he countered, dragging John out the door.

* * *

Even at seven-thirty in the morning, there was a queue of tourists crowding Upper Belgrave Street. Accordingly, a few beggars worked the area – John gave a fiver to one woman who had grabbed Sherlock’s hand in her enthusiasm. “Thank you kindly, sirs!” she called after them.  
  
“Alright?” John muttered to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.   
  
“I wear gloves for a reason, John; it’s fine.”   
  
After some mild jostling, they nudged their way to the doorstep of No. 7, where Sherlock rang the buzzer. John couldn’t help but feel out of place with his military jacket, but Sherlock looked properly exotic in his coat. “How, exactly, are you planning to get us in?” he hissed while they waited.   
  
The alien winked at him and turned to the door as it swung open. “Good morning! My name is Sherlock Holmes; this is my friend, John Watson. Sorry to bother you so early, but we’re looking for Miss Underdown,” he greeted. “It’s something of an emergency.”   
  
“I am she,” the woman acknowledged. John blinked at the light French accent. “How may I help you?”   
  
“We have reason to believe that your Vermeer painting – _Delft at Dusk_ – is integral for solving a case. May we see it?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment,” Underdown said. “It was stolen sometime last night, but it should be back at three in the afternoon, if that’s not too late.”  
  
 _That’s too late! We’ve only got until three to figure out the problem._ Sherlock focused on a different part of the sentence, however: “Pardon? You said that it’s been stolen, but it will be back at three?”  
  
John blinked. _More than that, she’s way too calm about this. What’s going on here?_  
  
“Oh, yes.” She glanced around before stepping away from the door. “Please, come inside; I’ll explain.” They followed her to a drawing room, and she pointed out a conspicuously blank spot on the wall. “It was hung on the wall, there, but when I came in this morning I found a note tacked in its place.” Underdown pulled open a drawer and handed the note to Sherlock. John leaned over to read it, as well.  
  
 _Today, at three o’clock, the painting will be returned.  
~Arsene Lupin_  
  
“A thief who returns what he steals,” Sherlock muttered. “Intriguing.”  
  
 _Assuming, of course, that he actually plans to give it back,_ John thought cynically. _And why isn’t she more worried about the fact that someone broke into her house?_ “When did you alert the police?”  
  
“I haven’t.” Underdown smiled at their sharp looks. “If Arsene Lupin says that he will return the painting at three o’clock, then it will be so.”  
  
“You’re very trusting of a man who makes his living through deception,” Sherlock mused. “Why are you so certain that he will keep his promise?”  
  
“Oh, Monsieur, this is not the first time that I’ve dealt with Lupin. A thief he may be, but he is a gentleman above all.” Perhaps sensing their intentions, she cautioned, “You won’t be able to find him unless he wants to be found. Arsene Lupin is a master of disguise: He changes identities like we might change our shoes. I have seen his face – or rather, one of his faces – but I still wouldn’t recognize him were I to meet him on the street.”  
  
Sherlock hummed and moved to examine the room. “The disturbance of the carpet here doesn’t match your shoes or weight; have you had any company in the last twenty-four hours?”  
  
“No; the only company I’ve had in the last week was the painter Horace Velmont. He’s going to paint my portrait next week.” She took a seat in one of the chairs and watched Sherlock work.  
  
“Based on the depth of the impressions, I would estimate our thief to be approximately sixty kilograms in weight. He stood flat-footed while he removed the painting, so he’d need to be at least, oh, one-point-eight metres tall.”  
  
“That’s very impressive,” Underdown commented, waving John to take a seat. “You’ve described him rather accurately. When I saw him, he had short, dark hair and a pronounced limp, but I’m certain that those features have changed since then.”  
  
John leaned towards Miss Underdown, a suspicion growing in his mind. _A painter and a stolen painting within a week of each other._ “Horace Velmont: What does he look like?” he asked. Sherlock straightened and focused on her.  
  
“Well, he’s blonde, tall – though, not as tall as your friend – and he wears glasses.” She paused, staring at him. “You don’t think that he’s Lupin, do you?”  
  
“Do you have a photograph of him?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“No, but there is a picture of him on his website,” Underdown said. “I’ll show you; come with me, please.” She led them to a study, where she pulled up the painter’s website.  
  
Sherlock stared at the painter’s image for several moments before his eyes flew wide. “I saw that man outside when we came in,” he said, turning to John. “He was the beggar you gave money to.”  
  
“Ah, Sherlock? That was a woman.” Maybe there was more to Sherlock’s sudden gender-changer earlier than he’d thought.  
  
“Then one of these is clearly a disguise because the bone structure is identical. Two identities, and he matches the build for the thief: This is Arsene Lupin,” the alien decided, rushing back to the front door. “Come, John; perhaps he’s still outside!”

They burst through the front door, Underdown a few steps behind, and scanned the tourists. “No,” Sherlock growled. “Not here. He’s left.” He dropped to a crouch on the doorstep and scanned the ground. “No marks in the concrete.” John moved to the side as Sherlock brushed past him to examine the door itself. “Very slight scrapes against the lock: He picked the lock to get in, but he did it very well.” He stepped back and looked up the façade of the building, looking disgruntled. “There’s almost no sign he was even here.”  
  
“What are you going to do, now?” Underdown asked.   
  
“We wait,” Sherlock replied, frowning. They thanked Miss Nelly Underdown for her time and got permission to return at two-thirty so that they would arrive before the thief; Sherlock led John away from the crowded street. “This is an impossible task,” he complained. “There are absolutely no leads on Lupin’s present location, and I can’t examine the painting before time runs out. What am I supposed to do?”   
  
“Maybe it was easier than we thought,” John suggested. “Maybe Moriarty thought it would take us longer to figure out than it did.”   
  
“So what’s the answer?”   
  
“That Lupin is the portrait-painter.” He shrugged at Sherlock’s raised eyebrow. “Like you said, there’s nothing else for us to go on.”   
  
“It’s worth a shot,” the alien huffed.

* * *

It wasn’t the answer. They gave the bomber ten minutes to respond before giving it up as a lost cause. Sherlock collapsed onto the couch and muttered to himself for a while before he devolved into a blob and wound around the furniture. John settled into his armchair and called Lestrade.  
  
“Arsene Lupin?” Lestrade repeated. “I’ve heard of him; I thought he was mostly active in France, though.”   
  
“Well, I’m fairly certain that Miss Nelly Underdown is French. It would explain how she knew him.”   
  
Lestrade reluctantly agreed and let John return to Sherlock with a promise to call if there were any developments. John hung up and glanced down at the floor, where Sherlock abruptly reformed and announced, “We’re going to the National Portrait Gallery.”

* * *

Admission to the gallery was thankfully free, so John spent the next five hours following Sherlock through the rooms as the alien analyzed the composition of paint, varnish, and canvas support used in the 1600s. They managed to find several of Vermeer’s original works, particularly _Love Letter_ and _Woman Holding a Balance,_ which Sherlock studied fiercely. John noticed a few suspicious lumps on the walls beside the paintings, but he let it go with a muttered, “Don’t touch them and don’t get caught.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.   
  
They took a break for lunch in the portrait gallery’s restaurant. John paid for a fairly inexpensive meal with the money he’d been expecting to use on admission, and Sherlock sat across from him and related a few of the more interesting facts he’d picked up from the tour.   
  
“So, did you find anything useful?” John asked between bites. _He can’t possibly have forgotten that there’s a child strapped to a bomb somewhere._ His meal suddenly looked less appetizing, but John forced it down anyway. He’d need the nutrition, he was sure.   
  
Sherlock shrugged. “It’s hard to know what’ll be useful until I have a use for it, isn’t it? I learned several things that were _interesting,_ but I have no idea whether they’ll be _useful.”_ He smiled.   
  
“I see,” John replied. _And, why are we here again?_ “How is this going to help the hostage, exactly?”   
  
“The bomber sent us an image of the Vermeer painting,” Sherlock reminded him. “It’s got to be important. I’m trying to figure out all that I can about him – it’s the only lead we’ve got right now.” His face lost definition for a few seconds before Sherlock regained control. “There’s got to be something.”

 _I really, really hope you’re right about that._ After John finished his meal, they returned to the gallery proper and continued browsing the selection of art until it came time to depart for Upper Belgrave Street again.

* * *

Miss Underdown was waiting for them when they returned at two-thirty; she let them in with little fanfare and offered tea. John accepted; Sherlock returned to the drawing room to examine the empty place on the wall again. “There’s got to be something,” he grumbled.  
  
When the knock came on the door at five minutes to three, Sherlock shot to his feet and raced to answer it; John followed at a slightly slower pace with Miss Nelly. When he rounded the corner into the foyer, Sherlock was already staring at the courier on the front step, door wide open. “It’s not him,” he grumbled.   
  
“Sorry?” the courier said, looking bewildered.   
  
“You’re not the thief. Who sent you?”   
  
“I don’t know who ordered the service,” he explained. “The sender asked it to be anonymous, so I don’t have his information.”   
  
“What about a description? What did he look like?”   
  
“I never saw him,” the courier said. He leaned around Sherlock’s arm and spotted Miss Nelly. “Nelly Underdown?” Sherlock turned away and moved to stand by John, light shudders passing over his face. John bumped his shoulder against Sherlock’s and watched Miss Nelly deal with the messenger. “I was told to bring this to you,” he told her, shooting a last, wary look at Sherlock. He held out a neatly-wrapped package.   
  
“Thank you,” she said, dismissing him with a glance at Sherlock. When the door had closed, she tugged the paper away from the package to reveal the lost Vermeer painting.   
  
“May I?” Sherlock reached a hand toward the frame, and Miss Nelly released it easily enough. “There doesn’t seem to be any damage done to it,” he muttered, turning it carefully in his hands. “Why did Lupin even bother stealing it?” He froze, suddenly, and stared at something in the painting.   
  
“What is it?” John asked, leaning closer. He could hear Sherlock muttering under his breath, and the alien’s nose was mere millimetres away from the canvas. “Sherlock?”   
  
“It’s a fake,” Sherlock announced, just as the pink phone rang. “Vermeer didn’t paint it. Hold this,” the alien demanded, handing the painting back to Miss Nelly, who barely grabbed it before he let go. He pulled out the phone and said, “It’s a fake; _Delft at Dusk_ is a fake. Arsene Lupin was a distraction.”   
  
There was silence on the other end, and John held his breath. “Proof,” the child said.   
  
Sherlock glanced wildly between the phone, the painting, and Miss Nelly. “Proving it is just a detail; it doesn’t matter. The painting’s a fake!” He stopped and closed his eyes. “Fine. I’ll prove it. I need more time; will you give me time?”   
  
“Ten.” _Oh, fucking hell. Please have something, Sherlock._ The alien’s eyes skittered over the painting, and John brought a hand to his mouth.   
  
“Nine.” Miss Nelly was staring at them in horror, apparently understanding the gravity of the situation. Her grip on the painting started to shake, and Sherlock grabbed it to hold it steady.   
  
“Eight.” John closed his eyes and turned away, wishing he could erase the poor child’s voice from his memory.   
  
“Seven.” Another phone was ringing; John looked down and saw it was his own. _Lestrade is calling to see whether we’ve solved the case,_ he thought numbly. He didn’t answer.   
  
“Six.” Sherlock was muttering to himself; John could hear what sounded like equations and calculations from where he stood.   
  
“Five.” The alien snapped to attention and dropped the pink phone into John’s hands. Sherlock flipped his cellular open and typed furiously.   
  
“Four.” He was pacing, almost unconsciously, focus entirely on the mobile phone. The mutterings were more to do with dates and names, now.   
  
“Three.” _Oh, God, he’s speeding up. Sherlock, hurry!_   
  
“Two.” Sherlock spun and raced back to John, snatching up the pink phone.   
  
“The Van Buren Supernova!”

There was expectant silence for a few seconds before the child said, “Please, come get me!” John sagged in relief, and Miss Nelly almost dropped the forgery. Sherlock got the child to give him his location, which John forwarded to Lestrade with a quick description of the ordeal. The woman was in no condition to answer more questions or get the full story, so they gave Miss Underdown Lestrade’s phone number; John politely ignored how badly her hands shook when they said goodbye.  
  
When they were past the crowd of tourists, though, John turned to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. “What did you mean by ‘the Van Buren Supernova?’” he asked.   
  
“I’m pretty knowledgeable about space.” _I should hope so, considering._ “The stars in the night sky of the painting were extremely accurate.” He turned his head and grinned at John. “For 1992. Vermeer supposedly painted it in the 1600s. I recognized one of the supernovae in the night sky, which we’ve only just seen recently on my home planet. I did the math, considering the speed of light, the orbit of our planets, and the distance between them: Your planet would have seen the supernova at some point in the early 1990s. I did a search on supernovae visible at that time and determined that it was the Van Buren Supernova, which was discovered in March, 1992.”   
  
“And if the supernova wasn’t visible until the 1990s, how could Vermeer have painted it in the 1600s?” John finished. “Brilliant.” He suppressed the niggling worry about the near-constant theme of space in this series of puzzles. “But, you knew it was a forgery before you figured that out; why didn’t you just explain whatever you’d discovered?”   
  
Sherlock sighed. “Humans can’t see,” he said. “When we were at the gallery, I noticed that Vermeer used lead in the ground layer of his paintings; there wasn’t any in _Delft at Dawn._ Additionally, the pigment used for blue was made of a different material. The information plaques at the gallery said that Vermeer used ground lapis lazuli; there wasn’t anything like that in Miss Underdown’s painting.”   
  
John stared at him. “You do realize that all of that is impossible to see without a microscope, right?”   
  
“Yes, which is why I had to find a different reason for the painting to be a forgery. Moriarty probably wouldn’t have accepted it, anyway.”   
  
“Right.” Shaking his head at Sherlock’s motion to hail a cab, John turned the corner. He needed to walk off some of the adrenaline from the afternoon and his relief at the rescue of the child, and they weren’t that far from their flat. “So what was that whole thing with Arsene Lupin about, anyway?”   
  
“I suspect that it was meant as a distraction,” Sherlock mused. “Moriarty wanted me to spend all of my time trying to hunt down Lupin, leaving the fact that the painting was a forgery a mystery.” His brows creased. “But, that doesn’t make sense; he said that he wanted me to solve the puzzles. That’s why he gave me a clue with the surgeon.”   
  
“Did it occur to you that he was lying?” John asked dryly.   
  
“Pardon me, sirs,” a man said, stepping into their paths. “Do either of you have a fiver to spare?”   
  
Somewhat bemused by the man’s abrupt appearance, John apologized, “No, sorry.” _I gave my last one to the beggar-thief._ Sherlock, likewise, shook his head.   
  
“Well, in that case you’re obviously in need of one,” the man decided, pulling a five-pound note from his pocket. “Here you are!” He placed it in John’s hand and walked away.   
  
“Um.” John looked down at the note. Then he saw the _note._ “What’s this?” He pulled the paper from the bill and unfolded it, Sherlock reading over his shoulder.

 _Right on all counts but one, Mr. Holmes!  
I don’t work for Moriarty; he caught wind of my plans and sent you after me – I apologize for cutting your time so close. I’d have returned it earlier to help with the case, but I didn’t realize the entirety of the situation until shortly before three o’clock.  
Well done, figuring out that I was Horace Velmont. I must admit that I am impressed.  
Thank you for informing Miss Nelly of that horrible fake! Ever since I saw it hanging on her wall, I knew that I had to give her some way of knowing that it was a forgery. I’d taken it to a scientist to have it tested, but you solved that mystery even faster than the laboratory. Your methods are certainly unique. ;)  
Keep in touch!,  
Arsene Lupin._   
  
“That was Lupin,” Sherlock breathed, head snapping up to stare in the direction he’d gone. “Come on, John; we can catch him!” He sprinted down a block, John right beside him, and turned into an alley.   
  
“Impossible,” John gasped, staring at the pile of clothes on the ground. “We didn’t spend that long reading the note; he can’t possibly have changed his appearance that quickly!”   
  
Sherlock knelt and examined the clothes before laughing. “It’s possible, John,” he countered. “It’s possible, and it’s very impressive.” He straightened and led John back through the streets towards their flat. “Let’s go home; he deserves to walk free after that.”   
  
“He knows there’s something strange about you,” John pointed out, running his finger along the last sentence in the letter’s body. “What if he exposes you?”   
  
His response was a gentle nudge on his shoulder. “He won’t,” Sherlock assured him. “I’m interesting, and he’s a challenge. He won’t give that up so easily.”   
  
“How can you be sure?” John pressed.   
  
“I just know.”

* * *

They had a few days to relax before the fourth pip came in around noon on the third day; John spent the interim alternately relieved and anxious. On the one hand, no pips meant that no one was being strapped to explosives. On the other, waiting for imminent action had never been John’s strong point. So the buzz of the pink phone was almost a relief, and it had him jumping to his feet beside Sherlock to stare at the screen, heart pounding. After the two pips, the image loaded to show a name.  
  
“That’s it?” John asked, staring at the name. “‘Johanna Flahave?’ What are we supposed to do with that?”   
  
Sherlock shrugged and held the phone, ready to speak to the latest hostage. “Perhaps Moriarty will give us another clue,” he suggested. They waited in silence for the phone to ring.   
  
And waited.   
  
“Why isn’t he calling?” John wondered five minutes later, brows furrowed as he watched the mute phone. “What does that mean?”   
  
“It means that he’s changing the rules,” Sherlock replied, reaching across the room to fetch John’s laptop. “We’ll start with the name; let’s see what we can find with that.” He booted up the laptop and typed the name into a search engine. After skimming through the first few pages –for such a unique name, there were quite a few Johanna Flahaves scattered over the world – he stood up and pulled his phone.   
  
John sat in the vacated chair and listened to Sherlock’s conversation. “Mycroft,” the alien greeted. “We just got the fourth pip from the bomber; I need you to look up a name for me and see if anything pops out.” He grimaced at whatever Mycroft said in response. “I know, and I’m sorry, but we’re doing the best that we can. There are only two more pips left.” A pause while Mycroft spoke. “He mentioned meeting me. I’m aware, but do we really have a choice?” Mycroft must have agreed to help him because he grinned and forwarded the text from the pink phone. “He hasn’t called through a hostage or given us a time limit, so it’d be best to err on the side of caution. Thank you.” The phone went back into his pocket, and he turned to John.   
  
“Was he not going to help?” John asked. _That doesn’t sound like something Mycroft would do._   
  
“He was just frustrated and stressed,” Sherlock explained. “Every case has created a massive backlash for him; he’s been working almost nonstop since before the explosion across the street.”   
  
“Oh. I hadn’t realized that we were making things so difficult for him.”

“We’re not; Moriarty is.” The alien pulled the laptop to him again and tried refining his search queries. “When you call Lestrade to tell him that we’ve gotten the fourth pip – more or less – ask him to look into the name as well.”  
  
John blinked at that. “I thought we weren’t allowed to go to the police for help,” he commented. “For that matter, we probably shouldn’t have called your brother.” _I didn’t think of that; what if Moriarty’s getting ready to blow up the next hostage now because we broke the rules?_  
  
“He’s changed the rules. The picture’s giving us almost nothing to go on, and the internet is no help. Until he tells us otherwise, everything is fair game.”  
  
 _God, I hope you’re right._ John dialed up Lestrade’s phone. “It’s me. We got the fourth pip, but he hasn’t called us through a hostage. Would you look up Johanna Flahave for us, please?”  
  
Lestrade agreed. “How are you two holding up?” he asked.  
  
John glanced at Sherlock, who had gained a few ripples of impatience. “Alright,” he equivocated. “A bit tired, on my part, but it’s almost over.” _Thank God._  
  
“Yeah, it’s what’s waiting at the end that’s got me worried,” Lestrade agreed. “I think a trip to the pub is in order when this whole thing is done with; you in?”  
  
Grinning a bit, relieved to have a moment of relative normality amidst all the intensity, John quipped, “If I’ve not already dropped into a coma by that point, you’re on.” Sherlock’s phone rang. “I’ve got to go; I’ll keep in touch.”  
  
The call was Mycroft, already finished with the record-searching; Sherlock put him on speakerphone. “There are three Johanna Flahaves residing in the UK, all within twenty miles of London,” he informed them flatly. “One lives in Hounslow, one in Potters Bar and the third in Dartford. I’ll text you the addresses of each. Additionally, there was a Johanna Flahave who was found dead in Tralee, Ireland. That was just over two decades ago in 1988.”  
  
“Most of these puzzles have revolved around deaths, but so far everything has been centered in London.” Sherlock muttered. “Ireland’s a little out of the way. We’d better make sure that he’s not aiming for any of the living Johannas before we start looking into an old death.” He shook his head. “I’ll keep it in mind, but we’ll interview the Flahaves living near London, first. Besides, one of them might be related to the deceased Johanna – we might be able to get some leads from them.”  
  
“Thank you, Mycroft,” John called. Sherlock read the texts from the phone and started searching for directions on the laptop.  
  
“You’re very welcome, John,” Mycroft replied, voice just a tiny bit more alive. “How are you handling everything?”`   
  
“As well as can be expected.” He shrugged automatically, even though the alien couldn’t see him. “I wish this whole thing was over and done with. Better yet: That it had never started in the first place.” _Of course, then all of the crimes Sherlock solved would have been left open; maybe there is a good side to this._  
  
Mycroft hummed noncommittally. “If you’ll excuse me, John, I really do need to get back to work.”  
  
“Oh! Of course; sorry.” Sherlock tossed a goodbye and thank-you over his shoulder before John hung up.  
  
Sherlock had wanted to take a cab to all three locations; John disabused the notion rather quickly. “We don’t have that kind of money, Sherlock,” he explained. “We’ll just have to take public transportation.” He reclaimed the laptop from the alien and looked up the schedule for the tube. “If we go to Hounslow first, we can take the District Line to the Piccadilly Line.”  
  
“John.” The alien nudged against John’s arm to get his attention. “We can’t take the subway.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“It’s crowded, John, or have you forgotten that? I can only cover so much skin without making it seem suspicious; if someone brushes against my head, it’ll be obvious that I’m not human.” Sherlock put his hand over John’s to demonstrate his point.

 _That would be a problem…if he didn’t have a coat, trousers, shoes, and gloves,_ John thought. “I’ll play interference for you; we really can’t afford the cab fare, Sherlock.” He copied down the list of trains they’d have to take for transportation and urged the alien to his room. “Get dressed up.”

* * *

John revised his opinion fairly quickly: While the ride on the District Line was fairly short and painless, the Piccadilly Line took much longer. Sherlock had shortened and flattened his hair in deference to the crowded jumble of people, but he still looked agitated and miserable from his position crammed against the wall. John blocked him from the rest of the carriage as much as possible, but every so often someone would get too close and cause Sherlock’s features to blur slightly as he flinched away.  
  
“Alright,” he relented when they arrived at Hounslow. “We’ll take cabs from here. You’re paying, though; I don’t have enough cash.” Sherlock grinned at him, clearly relieved, and led them to the first Johanna Flahave.   
  
Unfortunately, she didn’t know what could have prompted the bomber to use her name; Sherlock got her to give him free reign in her house for almost an hour, and even he couldn’t find a connection. The second and third were no more help than the first. On the way back to Baker Street, Lestrade called to tell John that he hadn’t found anything beyond the three they’d already talked to. “Sorry, John,” he apologized before disconnecting. Shortly after that, Sherlock called Mycroft and asked him for a copy of the dead Johanna’s file.   
  
It was after six in the evening when they finally returned; Mycroft was waiting outside of 221B with a small folder in his hand and a black car at his back. “No luck, then?” he verified, handing the folder to John while Sherlock paid the cabby. His skin was unnaturally smooth; John couldn’t see any of the usual pores, faked though they may have been. _Still stressed, then._   
  
“No. Plenty of cab fare, though.” John flipped the folder open and skimmed it while Sherlock shook hands with Mycroft, probably sharing everything they _hadn’t_ learned during the trip. “Still no call from the hostage, either.”   
  
“That is discouraging,” Mycroft agreed. He released Sherlock’s hand, and they both put on their gloves again. “If there’s nothing else you need from me, I’ll go back to work. That forgery has created a huge outcry in the art society: All of Vermeer’s works are being called into question, which is dropping the value of any of his pieces – but you don’t care about that.” He shook his head and got into the car. “Best of luck,” he wished them. “Be careful.”   
  
Sherlock took the file from John as they ascended the stairs and scanned it. “Cause of death: Asphyxiation,” he read, “but they never determined what caused her to stop breathing.” John opened the door to the flat and led them in; Sherlock immediately took a seat at the desk and spread out the papers. “Based on this photograph, there was something blocking her airway.”   
  
John made himself a cup of tea and leaned over the back of Sherlock’s chair. “Very distinctive bruising inside the throat,” he agreed. _Though, the image quality of these photos is horrible._ “What do you think caused it?”   
  
“Could be almost anything,” Sherlock grumbled, running his hands over the next few pages. “No way to know for sure without examining the crime scene – good God, did none of these technicians know how to document a crime scene correctly?”   
  
Forgiving the picture quality, John thought that the photographers had done a good job. “What did they do wrong?”   
  
“They’ve missed everything of importance!” the alien cried, scanning the last three papers. “Was there something in the trees above the body? What was in the surrounding area? At least they managed to tell us that she was found in the Ashe Memorial Town Park, but there are no other important details!” He grabbed John’s laptop from across the room and pulled up images of the park. “There’s no telling what’s been changed since 1988,” he complained.   
  
Entirely against his will, John’s stomach grumbled. Sherlock glanced at him, eyebrow raised, and John shrugged. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he explained, and Sherlock grimaced.

“I can think in a restaurant,” he decided, standing and towing John to the door. “Let’s go out for dinner. Where would you like to go?”  
  
John picked a nearby deli. They sat in silence while John ate his sandwich; Sherlock had his eyes closed and his head tilted back as he muttered thoughts about the deceased Johanna. The sun had set by the time they left. The light from the streetlamps shimmered against Sherlock’s dark hair, and John had to look away.  
  
“He can’t possibly want us to go to Ireland,” John commented. “Maybe her death was part of a larger crime?”  
  
“Yes, that could be it, but how can I be sure if I can’t examine the crime scene?” Sherlock huffed and shoved his hands into his pockets.  
  
John shrugged helplessly and bumped his shoulder into Sherlock’s, but Sherlock pulled back with a small ripple. Hurt by the rejection, John turned his face away and suggested, “Do you think that you can get in touch with the investigators of her case?”  
  
“It would be useless. Why would they remember her? There was nothing sensational about the case beyond the lack of cause, and it was over two decades ago.” They arrived back at the flat, and Sherlock dropped onto the couch with the file and John’s laptop. He devolved into a blob and set in to work.  
  
Feeling a little lost and unneeded, John stood uncertainly in the doorway with his jacket folded over one arm. He sighed and hung it on the hook before turning on the news. “After Vermeer’s _Dawn at Delft_ – valued at thirty million pounds – was exposed as a forgery, art collectors all over the world are questioning the veracity of any and all claimed ‘originals’ by the artist,” the reporter was saying. _Must be a slow day for news,_ John thought. “As a result, the original _Officer and Laughing Girl_ that the Prime Minister gave to the French Ambassador several weeks ago has caused a rise in tensions. If it proves to be another forgery, then relations between the two – and therefore between the two countries – may suffer.”  
  
“They must be joking,” John muttered. “All that fuss over a painting?” He felt a stab of guilt as he remembered Mycroft complaining about it earlier.  
  
There was no reply from Sherlock, and when he glanced over the alien had whited himself out. _I must have been bothering him,_ he thought. A hint of bitterness rose, but he forced it down. _He’s just stressed, too. And, really, he’ll be the one to solve this case._ John sighed and turned off the television, realizing the unrelenting tension and poor sleep of the last few days were catching up to him, hard. He stood up and made his way to the kitchen for some tea, stopping to brush a hand over Sherlock in encouragement and sympathy.  
  
He’d just extended his arm when the tentacle appeared in his vision, followed quickly by a burst of pain and the _thud_ of the carpet under his back. _What just happened?_  
  
“John?! I’m so sorry; I didn’t know you were there – you were sitting at your armchair, and I wasn’t watching; I didn’t see you move – John, are you alright?”  
  
John blinked at the frantic alien hovering over him and felt his cheek. The skin over his cheekbone was swelling slightly, and it was tender to light pressure. “Ow,” he said.  
  
Sherlock cupped one hand over the injury and stared down at him with wide, blurred eyes. “I didn’t see you move,” he repeated.  
  
 _Yes, because you were too busy pretending that I didn’t exist,_ John thought caustically. He forced down the bitter pain and anger and tried to smile, but the motion pulled at his cheek and caused him to grimace instead. The alien’s face blurred further, and he sighed. “It’s fine,” he grumbled, pushing himself upright.  
  
“I hurt you.”  
  
 _You didn’t need to hit me to do that._ “It was an accident. I’ll be alright.” John moved past Sherlock to get to the kitchen, where he made himself an icepack for the bruising. He caught his reflection in one of the glasses and winced: His cheekbone was already discoloured. After taking a few seconds to catalogue the maelstrom of his emotions – hurt, anger, frustration: All negative – John decided that he needed to escape for a while and get himself sorted out. “Maybe I should go to Mycroft’s for a few hours.”

There was a deafening silence behind him. “John?” Sherlock breathed, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder.  
  
John forced a nonchalant shrug. “I’m obviously not much help here,” he commented, trying not to sound bitter, “and you’ll probably be busy for the rest of the night, anyway. Besides, Mycroft’s been horribly stressed lately; I was thinking that I could get him to take a break and relax for a while.” As he spoke, he warmed to the idea. _I really haven’t spent any time with Mycroft lately, and he’s only seen Sherlock a couple of times a week. He’s got to be feeling pretty lonely._   
  
“That’s true,” Sherlock said hesitantly. “You’re sure that you’re alright?”   
  
Now that he had a plan of action, John felt himself relaxing a bit. “It’s fine, Sherlock. Look, we just need a few hours to cool down. I know you didn’t mean it and that you’re just frustrated, and I’m sure that when you figure this case out it’ll be fine. Right?” He turned, and Sherlock was still staring at him hesitantly. John rolled his eyes and pulled the alien in for a hug. “Just because I’m frustrated at you right now doesn’t mean I hate you, Sherlock.” He stretched up on his toes and pecked Sherlock’s forehead. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”   
  
“I’ll be here,” the alien promised, watching John walk out the door.   
  
It was only when he was outside and calling Mycroft that John realized what he’d done. _Oh my God,_ he thought, freezing on the sidewalk with the phone ringing in his ear. _I kissed Sherlock._ He glanced up at the window for 221B and prayed desperately that Sherlock hadn’t realized that there was any significance to the gesture beyond friendship. _I don’t think I reacted in front of him, at least. That would have been a dead give-away._   
  
“John?” Mycroft asked through the phone. John tore his thoughts away from the kiss and turned his attention to the situation at hand.   
  
“Good evening, Mycroft. Are you busy at the moment?” John started walking down the street to hail a cab; even if Mycroft was busy, he was still going to go over. The alien needed a break, and John absolutely _could not_ return to Baker Street until he had his emotions under control. _I can’t let myself slip like that again._   
  
“A bit, yes,” Mycroft replied dryly. “What can I help you with?”   
  
A cab pulled up at John’s signal, and he gave the cabby directions before replying. “You’re taking a break,” he announced. “I need to get out of Baker Street for a few hours, and you need to relax, so I’m coming over and dragging you away from your work by force, if necessary.”   
  
The alien sighed. “John, as much as I appreciate the offer, I really don’t have time for this.”   
  
_That’s kind of the problem._ “Exactly. You’ve been overworking yourself for a few weeks now, and it’s showing. How defined is your skin right now, compared to how it was a month ago?”   
  
There was a pause as Mycroft apparently took notice of his poorly-textured skin. “You may be right,” he admitted. “Alright, I’ll take a break for the evening.”   
  
“Excellent.” John grinned. “I’ll be there soon.” He hung up and leaned his head against the window of the cab, watching the scenery go by. _And, maybe I’ll be able to figure out what, exactly, to do about my attraction to Sherlock._   
  
There was a sharp sting in the side of his neck. He whipped his head around to stare in shock at the driver, who tipped his hat to him as his vision went dark.

* * *

Everything felt fuzzy when John woke up. He blinked his eyes open and recoiled from the face hovering above him. “What…?”  
  
“Easy,” the man soothed, grabbing a bottle of water from a nearby shelf. John blinked a few times and recognized him as Molly’s boyfriend. “Here; your throat must be dry.” He guided John’s hands around the bottle and supported it for John to drink.

It was with a sense of muted horror that John realized that his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t hold up the bottle unassisted. He took a few sips of water before pushing it away as best he could; Molly’s boyfriend replaced the lid and put it back on the shelf. “What’s going on?” John managed. _The cabby injected me with something,_ he remembered. _Fuck it; between the serial killer and this, I’m damn well_ walking _for the rest of my life._   
  
“I had to drug you – sorry about that, but I don’t know how strong his influence is. You’ll be very weak for the next half-hour or so.” He smiled at John. “I’m Jim – Jim Moriarty. We met at the morgue, remember?”   
  
_Jim Moriarty. Fuck._ “I remember.” John lolled his head around on the pillow, trying to see his surroundings. _He seems to be interested in chatting._ “Where are we?”   
  
“That’s still a secret,” Jim informed him, wrapping his hands around John’s torso and lifting him to a sitting position. He leaned him against the wall beside the bench and rummaged around in a box.   
  
John clenched his hands as much as he was able to – they barely moved – and asked, “Why am I here, again?”   
  
Jim straightened and turned, holding up a Semtex vest. John’s blood froze. “I’m helping you.” _How the hell is wrapping me in explosives helping me?!_ “He did that to you, didn’t he?” Jim nodded at the bruise on John’s cheek. “He hurt you. You must have broken his hold for just a moment – God, you’re so brave. I’m proud of you.” He placed the vest over John’s shoulders and brushed a hand over the bruise.   
  
“It was an accident,” John protested, weakly struggling away from Moriarty’s touch. _If there was ever a time to_ not _be drugged with a semi-paralytic, this would be it!_   
  
“What, you walked into a door?” Jim mocked. “I suppose it was too much to hope that the drug would lessen his influence over you.” He fastened the vest around John, primed the explosives, and patted John’s shoulder apologetically. “I’d suggest you don’t squirm around too much,” he warned, waving the detonator in John’s face before dropping it into the pocket of his suit.   
  
The drug was starting to wear off, but it was already too late. John watched as Moriarty pulled out a phone and took a picture of John. _He’s sending the last pip to Sherlock,_ he realized. “Alright, Johnny-boy,” he said, taking a seat on the bench across from John. “I’m sure you know how this works by now, but let’s review: You say exactly what I tell you to, and you don’t get hurt. Got it?”   
  
“Got it,” John snarled in reply. Jim smiled at him and handed him a pager before holding the phone between them. The ringing echoed in the small room for several seconds, and then Sherlock answered.   
  
“Hello?” His voice was flat and emotionless; John winced.   
  
“You’ve got my message, Sherlock?” John read from the pager.   
  
“Where are you?” He seemed to realize that John was Jim’s hostage because his voice was hard as he demanded, “Give him back.”   
  
“Not so quickly. I told you that I wanted you to come find me – I’m drugged,” John added, glaring defiantly at Moriarty. “Go to the Reichenbach pool alone.” Jim grimaced at him for his addition but said nothing.   
  
“John, be careful. I’m coming.”   
  
_‘Hang up,’_ the pager read. John flipped the phone closed. “That was rather naughty of you,” Jim commented. “I told you to read _exactly_ what I wrote and _only_ what I wrote.”   
  
John glared at him, braced for whatever punishment the man would give, but Moriarty only sighed in disappointment and ran a hand through John’s hair. He recoiled from the intimate gesture from such a horrible man, and Moriarty smiled at him sadly. _What the hell?_ John wondered.   
  
“Don’t worry,” Jim told him. “I know you couldn’t help it; his influence over you is stronger than I thought. It will be alright, though. I promise: By the end of the night, you’ll be free.” He glanced away, and his face twisted. “One way or another, you won’t have to suffer anymore.”

 _I’m pretty sure that he’s not talking about kidnapping me,_ John thought, feeling a sinking sensation in his gut. _He can’t possibly be thinking that Sherlock’s controlling me, can he?_ The case with the fobbed brain surgery came to mind. _No. No way; it’s too much of a stretch. And really, mind control?_ He kept silent, pushing down his anxiety, and waited with the man while the drug wore off; ten minutes later, Moriarty helped him up and walked him through the doors at the end of the room. They emerged at the side of an indoor pool; the fluorescent lights reflected off the water in shifting patterns across the walls. “Wait here,” Jim ordered. “Sherlock will be here soon.”   
  
Unwilling to risk the man setting off the detonator, John just stood and watched him trot back to one of the changing rooms. Moriarty left the door slightly ajar so that he could watch the pool area without being seen himself. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm his panic. _Sherlock will be able to sneak in without being noticed,_ he thought. _He’ll slide under the door, and I won’t even know he’s here; he’ll find a way to take care of Moriarty without revealing himself. It’ll be alright._ The disabling panic faded with the last of the drug’s effects, and when John opened his eyes he was ready for the battlefield.   
  
That was when Sherlock burst through the door, features blurred nearly beyond recognition. _Damn it,_ John thought despairingly. _He’s here as a human._   
  
“John?” Sherlock asked, staring at him. “You’re alright?”   
  
“Oh, please,” Moriarty sneered through the door, causing Sherlock to whip his head around, face quickly rearranging itself back to passably human. “Don’t act concerned on my account. We all know that you don’t really care.” He stepped out from behind the door, face set in a snarl. “Compassion is a human concept.”   
  
_What?_ The words and their implication sank in, and John felt his battlefield-calm fall back under the panic. _Oh, shit; he knows. Shit, shit, shit!_   
  
Sherlock stared at Moriarty, expression completely blank. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, changing the subject. “I never solved the fourth pip.” John almost jumped when he felt the reassuring press of a tendril against his ankle.   
  
“Of course not,” Jim mocked. “Johanna Flahave: Found dead in Ashe Memorial Town Park, Tralee, Ireland on the seventeenth of March, 1988. Cause of death: Asphyxiation,” he recited. “No known cause of asphyxiation.” He sneered at them. “They told me that she’d choked on air; did you know that? My mother was dead – and they said that she’d choked on air!”   
  
The pool echoed with the remains of his shout. John and Sherlock stared at Moriarty, stunned. _His mother,_ John thought. _Johanna Flahave is his mother._   
  
Jim straightened and composed himself. “They missed something important, though – but how could they have known? A few months before that, we were walking through the park together when something _extraordinary_ happened.” His face split in a sick grin. “A strange, round capsule fell out of the sky and landed in front of us.” John felt his breath catch as he realized what was coming next. “Would you believe that two aliens came out of it? Unbelievable, I know – I was only eight at the time, and I hardly believed it myself. My mother, though; she was a brave woman. I remember clutching her hand and trying to pull her away when she walked up to the _things_ and reached out to one of them.”   
  
_There was a scouting party,_ John remembered. _Mycroft said that they had sent scouts to our planet to determine whether it was livable for them and to see if we needed help – they must have run into Johanna Flahave._ John thought of his own first experience with Sherlock and winced. He hoped that the other two aliens had had a bit more tact when introducing themselves.

“ _It ate her.”_ No more tact, then. John couldn’t even imagine how terrifying the experience must have been for eight-year-old Jim. “That fucking _monster_ just swallowed her whole and spit her out again, supposedly no worse for wear. But, I know better.” Jim turned to look at John, suddenly. “He did the same to you, didn’t he? I’ve figured it out: That’s how they begin the mental control. The aliens never ate me, so I was saved; Mother was lost forever.”  
  
Moriarty was shaking with emotion, but John could only stare in shock, mind blank. Sherlock shifted and interjected, “We can’t control another being’s mind.”  
  
“Oh, no?” Jim laughed as he swung around to glare accusingly at Sherlock. “And how do you explain my mother’s sudden – _enthrallment_ – with extraterrestrial life? I wanted to leave right away, you know; she grabbed my wrist and _forced_ me to touch one of them.” He shuddered. “Disgusting. You’re all so _disgusting.”_  
  
 _And that’s how he knew that Sherlock was an alien. He touched Sherlock’s hair when we were in the morgue. He’s known this entire time; he’s just been playing with us._  
  
“So why the puzzles?” Sherlock asked, voice unnaturally calm. “Why risk the lives of three human beings – one of them a _child_ – just to bring me to you?”  
  
Jim shook his head and sighed in faux disappointment. “You didn’t make the connection, did you?” He raised a hand and ticked off the pips. “Alien life. Mind control. Blending into your surroundings – yes, I did know that Arsene Lupin would target the painting. My mother’s death.” He gestured at the pool. “And this: The great reveal. It was all a message to you, but you were too stupid to see it.”  
  
John gritted his teeth – _Sherlock’s not stupid_ – but remained silent. The tendril around his ankle had wound up his leg and was working at the clasps on the vest, but they remained stubbornly fixed together.  
  
“So, now what?” Sherlock prompted. “You wanted my attention? You’ve got it. What do you want?”  
  
“I never finished my story,” Jim told him, voice disturbingly calm. “Mother and I left the park, but she never stopped thinking of the aliens. She would go back to the park, week after week, and I was forced to come along. Every day, she’d talk about the aliens – she’d talk about nothing else! – and my _father_ got more and more annoyed with her. Our family broke apart with her obsession until she finally walked out.” His lips curled. “She said that she was going to find the aliens. Well, she found them, alright. She found them and _they killed her.”_  
  
The pool was silent as Jim panted in fury. “And, I was left with Daddy,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Daddy dearest, who didn’t believe that Mother had seen aliens. Daddy dearest, who blamed my ‘crazy whore of a mother’ for destroying us. Daddy dearest, who took out his anger on me.” His voice cracked on the last one, but he recovered quickly. “Those _god damned aliens_ destroyed my life. You pretend to be one of us so that you can gain our trust, but you’ll destroy everything you touch!”  
  
“They didn’t kill her,” Sherlock said finally. “We’re pacifists; murder is unacceptable. They didn’t kill her.”  
  
Jim laughed. “You’d like me to believe that, wouldn’t you? You won’t get me like you did her – like you did him.” He nodded in John’s direction. “No more. No more mind-slaves. No more control. Get the _fuck_ off of my planet.”  
  
“They’re here to help us,” John told him.  
  
“They’re here to enslave us!” Moriarty turned and grabbed the shoulders of John’s jacket in his hands, shaking him lightly. John felt Sherlock’s tendril press against him to avoid detection. “You’re still in there; you’ve _got_ to be in there. Fight him, John! _Fight him!”_  
  
“There’s nothing to fight, you bloody lunatic!” John shouted. “Just let me go.”  
  
Moriarty released him slowly and backed away. “I see. His hold is too strong. Tell me, Sherlock, did you erase his old personality when you took him over? It doesn’t matter, I suppose.” He pulled the detonator from his pocket and held it up. John tensed. “Release him, Sherlock Holmes. Release him, or I’ll kill him. Death is better than being a mindless puppet.”

 _He can’t be serious._ “You’re insane! If you set this off, we’ll both blow up!”   
  
“I promised that I’d set you free,” Jim reminded him. He lurched forward and cupped his empty hand over John’s cheek. “I’ll do it, no matter what it takes. Even if he steals you away again, I’ll find you, and I’ll release you. I promise. There is nothing that will keep me away.”   
  
John looked at Sherlock, who was staring at him with a blank expression. The alien’s hand was shifting restlessly at his side, John noticed; the fingers kept melding together to form a point before separating into a human hand again. “You see people, and you weigh them by their merits,” Sherlock said. “You calculate the value of one’s life against the other’s, and you make a decision based on that.” _He’s quoting the conversation we had after the smuggling case,_ John realized. _Why is he – He means to kill Moriarty!_   
  
Shaking his head slightly, John tried to communicate through eye contact alone. _Don’t do this – not for me. You’re a pacifist; it’s what makes you who you are – don’t break it for this madman. I don’t want you to break it for him. I don’t – I don’t even want you to break it for me. It would destroy you. It would destroy_ us, _if we make it out of this alive. Please, Sherlock, don’t do it. I never want to see the coldness of bare-handed murder in your eyes.  
  
I love you. Don’t kill for me._   
  
Some of it must have made it through because Sherlock hesitated, looking uncertain, before forming his hand back into separate fingers and leaving it like that. Moriarty had backed away and was staring at them both with wild eyes, clearly aware that Sherlock had been considering his murder. “Release him, Sherlock,” he demanded, thumb millimetres from triggering the detonator.   
  
“I can’t,” Sherlock whispered. The tendril against John’s chest slid up to tenderly brush over his face; John closed his eyes and forced back the hitch of his breath. _I will not cry in the face of death._ “I can’t.”   
  
“Then he will die.”   
  
John opened his eyes and smiled at Sherlock. “It’ll be alright,” he promised. Sherlock shook his head, looking lost, and mouthed John’s name.   
  
“I’m sorry, John,” Moriarty murmured, moving to trigger the detonation. Sherlock lunged at him, reaching for the detonator but clearly too late, and Moriarty suddenly convulsed. The detonator dropped from his hand, and Sherlock snatched it up before it could hit the floor. Moriarty stared at them, eyes wide with shock, as blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He took a rattling breath and collapsed on the floor. There was a huge hole in his back.   
  
“What…?” John gasped, gaping at the impossible scene. Sherlock wasted no time and set to work on the Semtex vest, trying to get the damned clasps to release. “What happened?”   
  
He got no reply; Sherlock froze suddenly before surging over John and slipping between the vest and his shirt. John had a moment of panic – the alien had covered his nose and mouth completely – before there was a sudden burst of pressure around his ribs and he felt them moving. When Sherlock pulled away, John was lying on his back and the room was engulfed in flames. Debris was raining down on them. “John, are you alright?” he asked urgently, sheltering him with his own body.   
  
“I’m fine,” John said, more than a little surprised that he was still alive. “What happened?” he asked again. _Sherlock had the detonator; did he set it off?_   
  
“There was someone else,” Sherlock explained, running his hands over John’s face, neck, and ribs. “He was in the balcony; I hadn’t seen him earlier, but he stepped out when Moriarty collapsed. He had a detonator, too.”   
  
John twisted around to look for Moriarty; the flaming corpse on the other side of the room didn’t bear much resemblance, but it was the only option. “How did he die?”   
  
“I don’t know.” Sherlock half-collapsed onto John, wrapping him up in a hug. “You’re safe; you’re alright; I thought I was going to lose you.”   
  
The air was getting hotter; it was starting to hurt to breathe. “Sherlock, we need to leave,” John said. “Now.”

“Yes. Okay. Sorry; here, let me.” Sherlock helped John to his feet, scrutinizing him for any indications of discomfort, and escorted him from the burning building. He stayed wrapped around him as they escaped the area and hailed a cab – John shot the driver a suspicious look but didn’t protest – and he still hadn’t let go by the time they reached Baker Street.  
  
They stumbled into the sitting room and collapsed on the floor, Sherlock immediately devolving into a blob and encasing John almost completely. His skin turned iridescent white. John wrapped his arms around the alien in return and let the shivers of terror take hold as his adrenaline faded. Sherlock twitched against him – _Sorry, Sherlock, I can’t stop shaking this time_ – but relaxed when John tightened his grip reassuringly.  
  
He was still trembling faintly when the knock came on the door. Sherlock reformed as a humanoid and reached over John’s head to turn the knob, revealing Mycroft. If anything, Mycroft looked like he was in even worse shape than Sherlock – his skin was wracked with ripples, and John could barely tell that he was supposed to look human with the way his features had blurred. John felt a stab of guilt as he realized that Mycroft must have been waiting for him to arrive and panicked when he hadn’t.  
  
“I killed him,” Mycroft whispered, dropping to kneel beside them. John stared, uncomprehending. “He was going to kill you, but I killed him.” The alien brushed a hand over John’s horrified expression, and his form wavered dangerously before resettling as human.  
  
 _Oh, God. Mycroft._ John pulled Mycroft into their pile, heart twisting and aching. _Not you. Not you. God, I’m so sorry._ His shoulders heaved at the sheer injustice of it all: It would have been bad enough if Sherlock had murdered Moriarty; for it to be Mycroft, who’d already been feeling discouraged in his mission for peace, was utterly heartbreaking. Sherlock curled around them all, running his arms over Mycroft’s back.  
  
“You didn’t show up,” Mycroft gasped into John’s shoulder. “I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer; I tried Sherlock, but he didn’t answer either.” Sherlock’s grip tightened around them for a moment before relenting. “I tracked you through the CCTV network, and I followed you.”  
  
 _This can’t be happening,_ John thought numbly. _It can’t._ “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“He was going to come after you. He would have killed you; even if we’d arrested him, he would have come after you. I had to. I had to. _John.”_  
  
Everything sort of slid into wordless sobs and clutching hands, after that. They settled into a pile on the sitting room rug, the two aliens wrapped around John and each other in their natural forms and John crying for all three of them. Eventually, the tears slowed and his shoulders stopped heaving; John lay, engulfed by his adoptive family, and stared hollowly at the ceiling.  
  
 _This can’t be happening,_ he thought  
  
But it was.

* * *

When morning came, John was surprised that he’d managed to sleep at all. The other two were still wrapped around him, and they didn’t seem like they were going to be moving any time soon. To be perfectly frank, John didn’t think he was up to it, either. He brushed a hand over the winding seam where pink met grey, and the aliens curled into his touch. “How are you doing?” he asked them.  
  
Sherlock rippled once and burrowed against John’s side; Mycroft latched around John and whited out. “Not very well,” he summarized.   
  
_I should tell Lestrade what happened,_ he thought. _I don’t know how to explain it, though. How can I explain that I was kidnapped by a man who knew that my two best friends are alien pacifists, and that one of those aliens killed him to save my life?  
  
Might as well start with the news._ “Sherlock, could you hand me the remote?” he asked. “We should see if they’ve gotten last night’s situation sorted out.” Mycroft was still whited out; he wouldn’t have been able to read John’s lips if he’d asked him. _I don’t think I’ll be asking anything of Mycroft for a while, anyway._ His heart clenched again at the memory of the usually composed alien’s breakdown the night before.

Sherlock stretched across the room and grabbed the remote, which he deposited in John’s hand. “Thanks,” John told him, flipping the news on.  
  
“So far, investigation has turned up no leads,” the reporter was saying over a camera pan of the burnt husk of the pool building. “Two bodies were recovered from the site of the explosion, but no identifications have been made as of yet. Some are questioning whether the bodies may belong to two of the people from this video, which was uploaded to the front page of our website last night by an unknown hacker.” The screen switched to a video clip, and the remote dropped from John’s slack fingers. “The video clip has gone viral in the few hours since it was posted, and authorities are still no closer to determining who is responsible for the video or the explosion. Speculation is running wild as to the poster’s identity, whether the events portrayed in the video are real or special effects, and who the so-called alien is. Let’s take a look.”   
  
“Oh my God,” John gasped, fingers clutching at the two aliens at his sides. They darkened their pigments to see what had upset him, and all three of them watched as Sherlock – barely looking human – burst into the building and Moriarty stepped just into the camera’s range. _There was a hidden camera. Moriarty had a hidden camera, and he was streaming it onto the internet.  
  
“Compassion is a human concept,”_ the on-screen Moriarty sneered. They watched as Moriarty explained his history with aliens; they watched as he threatened John’s life and Sherlock’s hand shifted into a point and back, and they watched as he collapsed. John spared a moment to be relieved that the camera’s angle didn’t reveal Mycroft’s involvement, and then the image on the screen turned white as the camera shattered in the force of the explosion. Sherlock and Mycroft turned white with it and burrowed into John, as if trying to hide from reality. John rather wished that he could do the same – the images were somewhat blurry, but it wouldn’t take much to clear up their faces for identification.   
  
“If you have any information on the events of last night, we encourage you to call the hotline at the bottom of your screen.” John snatched the remote from the ground and jabbed the power button. In the ringing silence, he stared down at the two terrified aliens and felt his mind start to engage. There was really only one way he could sum up the entire situation.   
  
“Hell.”

-End arc 2-


	10. A Smile Is Cheaper (Than a Bullet)

_Click._   
  
“– have identified the bodies: Sebastian Moran and James Flahave.”   
  
_Click._   
  
“– obvious that the video’s faked; this whole thing is just an elaborate hoax, and –”   
  
_Click._   
  
“Of course it’s real! Come on, man, this is a _message._ The aliens are here.”   
  
_Click._   
  
“– lighting of the shifting hand is perfect. These are extraordinarily well-done special effects. In fact, I’d –”   
  
_Click._   
  
“Due to the poor sound quality of the video, there are still no leads on the two unidentified persons of interest. We are in the process of isolating and removing the ambient noise to clarify the sound –”   
  
_Click._ John turned the television off and ran his hands through his hair. “We need to come up with a story,” he announced. “Someone’s going to recognize us, probably sooner than later.”   
  
“We claim that it was a hoax,” Sherlock suggested flatly, one hand scrolling through forums and blogs on John’s laptop and the other staying in contact with Mycroft, who was watching the proceedings without interacting. John had gotten up from their tangle several minutes before and made himself a cup of tea to try to calm down; the two aliens had relocated to one of the armchairs. “We were never there; someone got look-alikes and staged the whole thing.”   
  
John shook his head. “That’s way too much of a coincidence: An alien hoax was staged in a pool at the same time that a real pool exploded and left two bodies?”   
  
“A very elaborate hoax, then.”   
  
“Wouldn’t work. Even if some people buy it, there’ll be the conspiracy theorists who don’t let it go. All it takes is one of them finding something suspicious about you or Mycroft, and it’s all over.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Moriarty did it.”   
  
Sherlock slammed the laptop closed, skin rippling dangerously, but his voice was still even. “What would you suggest we do?” Mycroft curled higher over Sherlock’s arm, and the ripples faded.   
  
“I don’t know!” John groaned, falling back against the cushions of the sofa. “Maybe if we say it was a trap to lure Moriarty in, but it went wrong, and we ran off when the building exploded?”   
  
“Ignoring the fact that he clearly lured us there, there’s no way a human would have survived that explosion without assistance. We can’t have been there when the building went up.”   
  
Mycroft reformed for the first time since the night before and stared at the blank television screen. “I can talk to the government,” he said. “I might be able to convince them to remove the video clip and classify it. They’ll want to know why, of course, and covering the entire thing up will probably raise suspicions.”   
  
“Someone’s coming,” Sherlock said abruptly, reopening John’s laptop. Mycroft slipped from Sherlock’s side and sat in the other armchair. The two aliens rearranged their features to look perfectly human, so when the knock came on the door John was the only one who looked disheveled.   
  
“Come in,” John called, tugging his shirt straighter so that it didn’t look so rumpled.   
  
Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped through the door and shut it behind him. He stared at them, bloodshot eyes flicking over Mycroft before returning to John and Sherlock. “Who is he?”   
  
“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft introduced himself, nodding to the DI. “I’m Sherlock’s brother.”   
  
“Really.” Lestrade examined him for a moment before shaking his head and turning back to Sherlock. “What the _fuck_ happened last night?” he demanded. “Two people are dead!”   
  
Luckily, Lestrade was watching John and Sherlock instead of Mycroft: John saw him flinch and blur from the corner of his eye; John winced. _He doesn’t need to be reminded of that so soon._ “We saw the news,” he said aloud. “Are there any leads on the explosion?”

“Yeah. You two.” Lestrade scrubbed his hands through his hair, mussing it further. “I’ve been working the scene for the last eight hours; I only just saw the video. It’s a minor miracle no one else has recognized you two thus far. What the _hell_ were you doing there?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged, looking perfectly at ease. John was slightly jealous. “We weren’t,” Sherlock denied. “The actors do have a startling resemblance to us, though, don’t they?”  
  
“Oh, don’t give me that. The sound quality may have been shit, but the man was talking about the case. He had details, Sherlock.” Lestrade paused for a second, working through something in his mind. “That was him, wasn’t it? That was the bomber. _Christ,_ Sherlock.” He glared at John. “You were supposed to keep him in line!”  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair. Even though John knew that he was in the midst of an emotional crisis, he seemed utterly calm. “You can’t possibly believe that the video is real. Aliens don’t exist, Detective Inspector,” he chided.  
  
Lestrade closed his eyes and tilted his head back, shoulders drooping. “I don’t know what to believe,” he muttered. “I came here as soon as I recognized you two; I thought that I would give my _friends_ a chance to explain to me what the hell is going on.” He gave John and Sherlock a meaningful glance before turning his attention back to Mycroft. “If you’ve got a better explanation for the fact that Sherlock crossed about six metres in half a second, I’d love to hear it.”  
  
“It must have been video editing,” Sherlock told him. “There’s no other plausible explanation.”  
  
“I’m not buying it, Sherlock. If it was just video editing, why do I have two dead bodies?”  
  
Mycroft’s skin flickered to a paler shade before settling back to his usual tone. The room filled with silence: They still hadn’t come up with an excuse for the dead men. _This is not going well._  
  
“Damn it, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed. “Fine. If you’re not going to explain to me, I have to bring you in for questioning. You two are our only leads right now.”  
  
 _That’s a really bad idea._ “Wait.” John glanced at Sherlock and Mycroft, but he couldn’t read anything from their non-expressions. _I need to talk to them; we need to figure out what to do!_ “Could you give us a minute?”  
  
Lestrade barked a humorless laugh. “So that you can get your story straight?” he guessed. “No. Just tell me the truth.” John averted his gaze and remained silent. “I only want to understand.”  
  
“The video was real,” Sherlock said abruptly. He ignored John’s incredulous stare. “All of it.” His face slid just out of focus; it was almost enough to give John a mild headache.  
  
The DI must not have noticed it, though, because he replied sarcastically, “And you’re telling me that you’re an alien?”  
  
“Sherlock…” John muttered, glancing between Sherlock and Lestrade. _What are you doing?_ He noticed a slightly raised line across the sitting room floor; it ran between the two aliens. _At least they’re talking about it, but what does he think he’s doing?_  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied to Lestrade, skin losing most of its definition. “Flahave was the bomber – he goes by Moriarty.”  
  
“An alien. You’re joking, right?” Lestrade looked much more uncertain, though; John noticed that he was blinking and squinting, as if to bring Sherlock back into focus. Sherlock stretched an arm across the room so that his hand hovered in front of Gabe’s chest, and Gabe stumbled back into the door, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he breathed, staring over Sherlock’s too-long arm. He hesitantly brought a shaking hand up to rest against Sherlock’s, and he pulled it back almost immediately after touching the strangely textured skin. _“Holy shit.”_  
  
Sherlock drew his hand back as Gabe slid down the door, and John took the initiative to move to Gabe’s side. Gabe stared at them, eyes wide and breathing a bit too fast. “Don’t panic, Gabe,” John urged as he kneeled beside him. “It’s okay. They won’t hurt you. Seriously, they come in peace.”

It hurt a bit when Gabe flinched away from his hand, but John couldn’t say that he was surprised. “Moriarty said that you were being controlled,” Gabe choked out, glancing between John and Sherlock. “That he was controlling you.”   
  
“He was wrong,” John said firmly. “I’m my own person, and you’re in no danger of losing your free will. It’s overwhelming, I know.” He glanced at Sherlock. _What were you thinking, just blurting it out like that?_ “Just stay calm and go along with it.”   
  
Gabe gulped down a few deep breaths of air and straightened. “Okay,” he said, clearly forcing himself to remain calm. He looked up at Sherlock. “Okay, so you’re an alien.” His gaze turned to Mycroft. “You, too?” Mycroft nodded, face devoid of expression. “So, Flahave was telling the truth.”   
  
“As far as he was aware, yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Obviously, he was mistaken about a few things.”   
  
After closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself, Gabe nodded with steel in his body language. “Right. John, have you got any tea? I’d ask for something stronger, but I need to go back to work in a little over an hour.”   
  
Smiling slightly – _This might actually work out for the better_ – John stood and helped Gabe to his feet. “Yeah, I’ll get you some. I think I could use a bit myself.”   
  
As he stepped into the kitchen, he heard Gabe sit on the couch and ask, “So, what brings you to our part of the galaxy?”   
  
Mycroft explained that they were there to establish world peace, essentially. John set the kettle of water to boil and leaned against the door jamb to watch. _And, if Gabe decides to make a run for it, I can head him off._ Gabe asked whether the government knew that they were aliens.   
  
“No; they believe that we are human.” Expression defining further and showing real emotion, Mycroft added, “It seemed safer for me to introduce our ideas under the guise of a fellow human than as an alien, but current circumstances appear to be leading us to full disclosure.”   
  
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” John asked, startling Gabe. He’d apparently forgotten that John was in the flat. “It’s a bit of a sudden change in strategies.”   
  
“It’s damage control,” Sherlock said flatly. “We’re trying to minimize our losses and keep as much of our reputation positive as we can.”   
  
“Besides,” Mycroft said, “we were going to have to reveal our nature eventually. I plan to introduce our species, remember? Although it’s happening much sooner than I had expected, I do have a few plans in place that can be salvaged.” He grimaced. “Many, unfortunately, are useless in this situation.”   
  
“So you’re going public with this?” Gabe clarified, glancing between the three of them.   
  
“We are,” Sherlock confirmed.   
  
“Right.” He rubbed his palms against his trouser legs and shifted his weight on the sofa. “What’s your plan?”   
  
John turned back to the kitchen to prepare his and Gabe’s tea, but he heard Mycroft outline a list of government officials he’d need to contact and the favors he’d need to ask or collect. “The UK is first, of course, seeing how Sherlock and I have been living here without their informed consent.”   
  
“Are you telling the masses, though, or just the politicians?” Gabe pressed. John returned and handed him a teacup before leaning against Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock glanced up at him and grabbed John’s free hand, encircling his wrist comfortingly. Smiling at the way his heart rate immediately calmed a bit, John returned his attention to the conversation. His smile fell when he saw Gabe staring at them as if they were suspects to be analyzed, but he didn’t pull away from Sherlock.   
  
“The politicians only, for now,” Mycroft replied, drawing Gabe’s attention. “You will be an exception; I trust that we needn’t emphasize the need for your silence on the matter?”   
  
Gabe shook his head and took a sip of tea. “That’s not why I asked. I’m not going to be the only one who recognizes you on that video, you realize?” Gabe shrugged. “Alan and Sally will know you, at the very least, and probably several more besides them. Any one of them could decide to go to the press before coming to you.”

John winced at the thought of explaining this situation to Alan and Sally. _Really not looking forward to that,_ he thought, _but having them go to the press would be much, much worse._   
  
“Listen.” Setting the teacup on the table, Gabe leaned over his knees and suggested, “You’re already telling the prime minister and a portion of Parliament about yourselves, right? Why don’t you add the Yard to that list? You’ll have us on your side in case things get even _more_ out of hand, and we’ll be able to screen what information about the pool explosion last night gets released.” He blinked. “For that matter, what _did_ happen last night at the pool? Flahave suddenly collapsed.”   
  
_Don’t look at Mycroft, don’t look at Mycroft, don’t look at Mycroft!_ John tensed and forced himself to take a sip of tea, watching Gabe. When Sherlock didn’t answer immediately, he swallowed and said, “We don’t know.” Gabe turned to him, and he fought to smile nonchalantly. “He just fell over; maybe the other man shot him?”   
  
Gabe bought the excuse easily enough and promised to have Anderson search Jim’s body for a bullet’s remains. “Not that he’s likely to find anything, considering how badly the fire damaged everything,” he admitted. John relaxed a bit, and he shot Mycroft a small smile when Gabe wasn’t looking.   
  
Mycroft didn’t acknowledge the gesture, instead saying, “Informing the entirety of the Met seems needlessly risky. It’s incredibly unlikely that so many people would all keep silent.”   
  
“You wouldn’t be telling everyone, of course,” Gabe reassured them. “The commissioner, definitely, and perhaps the next few ranks below him, but most of the common rank-and-file wouldn’t need to know.”   
  
Sherlock turned to Mycroft. “It wouldn’t be much different from telling your politicians,” he commented, “and it will help reduce suspicion if we volunteer the information.” Mycroft must have agreed through their touch because Sherlock tilted his head and stared at Gabe. “Do you need us to come with you when you talk to the commissioner?” he asked.   
  
Gabe glanced at his watch. “I think I’ll be able to handle it on my own for now; you three get yourselves together. You’ll probably need to come in later for a private interview, though. I’ll do my best to keep you out of the investigation until absolutely necessary.” He stood from the couch, handing his empty teacup to John, and moved toward the door. “Do you mind if I talk to Anderson and Donovan, at least,” he asked John, “and explain to them before they see the clip themselves and panic like I did? If they haven’t already.”   
  
_He’s right: If he recognized me, they’re sure to as well._ With a glance at Sherlock and Mycroft for permission, he nodded. “Go ahead.” John smiled tightly as Gabe finally left, waiting for the door on the ground floor to close before he half-collapsed against the side of Sherlock’s chair. “Next time you decide to do something utterly _insane,_ do you think you could give me a bit more warning?”   
  
“Sorry,” Mycroft said, standing and pulling out his mobile. He removed himself to Sherlock’s room and shut the door, leaving John staring after him in bewilderment. _That was rather abrupt,_ he thought, trying not to feel hurt at the dismissal.   
  
“Mycroft will be on the phone with various government leaders for a while,” Sherlock warned. He glanced at the door to the ground floor and mused, “It’s a good thing that Mrs. Hudson is away. Though, we should probably tell her eventually.”   
  
John weighed the situation and nodded. “I think so,” he agreed. “I don’t think she’ll freak out too badly. She seems to like us.” Sherlock gently lifted John and moved him to the sofa, sliding down to the rug and leaning against John’s lower legs. John sighed and ran a hand over Sherlock’s hair, listening to the indecipherable murmur of Mycroft’s voice.   
  
“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked softly, leaning harder against his knee. John huffed a laugh and shook his head, aware that the alien would see it. “Can I help?”

“I doubt it, and I should be asking that of you, anyway.” John replied, dropping his head back against the cushion. “It’s just – Fuck, this changes everything.” He groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “None of them are going to look at us the same way again, you realize.”  
  
Sherlock sighed and slid up the couch to sit beside John and pull him into a hug. “Your species is startlingly preoccupied with appearances,” he complained. “We’re still the same people as we were before they knew I wasn’t human; does my species really matter?”  
  
John snorted and buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sally’s going to be disappointed,” he chuckled. “She won’t get to call you a sociopath anymore.”  
  
“She can call me whatever she likes; it doesn’t change who I am.” _Very true,_ John admitted, relaxing into Sherlock’s hold. _But labels are an important part of our culture._ They stayed huddled on the couch for another fifteen minutes, listening to Mycroft’s voice rise and fall, until the door to Sherlock’s room opened sooner than John expected.  
  
Mycroft stepped out, phone held at his side, and extended an arm to Sherlock. They talked over John for a few seconds before Sherlock withdrew and looked down at the human. “The prime minister wants us to go to a secure facility for debriefing,” he explained. “We won’t return to London for a few days. Is that alright with you?”  
  
 _It’ll be lonely here without Sherlock,_ John thought, glancing around the flat. _At least, I’ll have Gabe – and hopefully Sally and Alan – to talk to. Still…_ “Can’t I come with you?” he asked wistfully.  
  
“That was what I was asking,” Sherlock replied, sounding confused. “He wants all of us to go. You’re the only human to have had extended contact with either of us, and you’re the only human who knew what we are before today. Why _wouldn’t_ he want to talk to you?”  
  
It sounded so obvious when Sherlock put it like that, and John felt a bizarre wave of relief and nerves. “Then, yes. I suppose.” John glanced up at Mycroft. “Where are we going, and when are we leaving?”  
  
“I wasn’t given a location” – John fought his immediate suspicion – “but a car will come in twenty minutes to take us.”  
  
“Oh.” _Why is everything happening so quickly?_ John pushed himself up from Sherlock and started towards his room. “I need to pack some clothes, then. How long are we staying?” he asked, pausing at the foot of the stairs.  
  
“A week’s worth of supplies should be sufficient,” Mycroft decided without looking at him. John shrugged and continued up the stairs.  


* * *

The black car that pulled up to the curb in front of 221B was almost identical to the one that Mycroft had used to abduct John when they’d first met, and John half-expected Anthea (or whatever her name was) to step out, Blackberry in hand. Instead, a nondescript driver stepped out to help John with his bag. “Good morning, Dr. Watson,” he greeted.   
  
“Er. Morning.” John glanced at Mycroft, wondering if he knew the man, but the alien was already getting into the back seat. Sherlock waited until the driver closed the trunk before sliding in behind Mycroft. John followed, and the driver shut the door behind him.   
  
A darkened glass barrier separated them from the driver, but the car was surprisingly spacious. Admittedly, Sherlock was skinnier than either him or Mycroft, but they fit comfortably in the wide seat. The driver pulled away from the curb, and Mycroft’s phone rang.   
  
“Mycroft Holmes,” he answered. “Yes, we’re in transit.” _Probably talking to whoever is coordinating our trip,_ John thought, watching as Mycroft’s eyebrow rose. “I see. Very well.” He closed the phone and turned to John and Sherlock. “We are being transported to the Orkney Islands,” he informed them. “It will take more than fourteen hours.”   
  
_The Orkney Islands?!_ “That’s in Scotland.” John shook his head. “Couldn’t we have just flown?”   
  
“Apparently not,” Sherlock shrugged. They rode in silence for several minutes, caught in their own thoughts, before John pulled out his mobile to send a text to Sally. _Might as well tell her myself, if Gabe hasn’t gotten to her already._ The hand he wasn’t using to type found Sherlock’s.

“Sally – watch the video from BBC’s website. Gabe knows the one,” he typed. He realized that he was clenching Sherlock’s hand and forced himself to relax. “Tell Alan, too. There aren’t any special effects.” _I can’t do this; I can’t explain it to her right now._ “Call me when you’ve seen it.” he finished, dropping his phone in his lap. “I feel like I’m coming out to my parents,” he quipped weakly. “By text message.”  
  
Politely huffing in amusement, Sherlock switched John’s hold to his other hand and wrapped the freed arm around John’s shoulder, tugging him up against him. “It’ll be alright,” he promised. “They’re your friends; they’ll understand.” The hand hanging over John’s shoulder didn’t have cuticles between flesh and fingernails, but John didn’t comment on Sherlock’s obvious uncertainty, instead accepting the comfort as it was intended.  
  
When Sally called twenty minutes later, she was much more subdued than usual and had Alan and Gabe with her on speakerphone. Their questions centred on ensuring that they – mostly John, to his annoyance – were alright and coping with the experience as well as possible. “It’s fine; _we’re_ fine,” John assured them, glancing guiltily across the seat at Mycroft. _All except for Mycroft, but he’s at least coping enough to move forward._  
  
Alan was a bit more wary of the aliens – “If it weren’t for the fact that I’ve seen you two disagree, I’d be worried that Flahave was right.” – but accepted their presence fairly easily. John supposed that it was less painful to believe they were extraterrestrials than drug addicts. John smiled up at Sherlock, watching his features sharpen by the second, and let himself relax as his friends proved that his worries were unfounded.  
  
“Is Sherlock there?” Sally asked. His nickname, which had taken on a more affectionate air over the past few months, was the first casualty of their confession.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock answered, bending his neck impossibly so that his head rested beside John’s. John put the call on speakerphone. “So is Mycroft.”  
  
“Be good to John,” Sally ordered. “No experimentation, probing, mind-tricks or blackmail; got it?”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John and directed his response to him. “Mycroft mentioned watching several of your movies about aliens before deciding to work covertly. I assume that this is why?”  
  
John chuckled at Sally’s indignant reply and told her, “It’s fine, Sally. It’s all fine.”  
  
They exchanged a few more comments and agreed to meet up for drinks after John returned. “It might take a few days,” he warned, but he still found himself looking forward to it with mixed anticipation and dread.  
  
“I’ll talk to the commissioner for you as soon as I can,” Gabe promised, and they ended the call.  
  
Mycroft had been worryingly silent throughout the entire call, so John glanced around Sherlock to ask, “You alright, over there?”  
  
“Hm?” Mycroft looked up at him and blinked. “Yes, fine. I was just thinking.” He turned away again to look out the window, and John wondered if he was tracing their route by the signs.  
  
“They took that well,” Sherlock commented, adjusting John so that he was half-reclined against the alien’s chest. John considered protesting the position, but reasoned that they’d done worse and that Sherlock wouldn’t see the intimacy, anyway. Sherlock’s brow creased. “They _did_ take it well, right?”  
  
“Yes,” John confirmed, shifting Sherlock’s arm to lie across his abdomen so that his own arms were free. “I think this might actually turn out okay.” Silently, he added, _So long as the governments don’t do anything to screw it up._ Still, their friends’ acceptance was far more than he’d hoped for. He settled in against Sherlock and watched the landscape go by.  


* * *

The sudden absence of noise woke John up; he blinked and realized that he’d fallen back further so that his weight would have squashed Sherlock if he’d been human. “Sorry,” he mumbled, pushing himself up and looking out the window. They had stopped to refuel, but he didn’t recognize the area. “Where are we?”   
  
“Carlisle,” Sherlock replied, shifting now that John had moved. “You fell asleep sometime around Preston.”

The driver came around and opened the door. “If you need to get out and stretch your legs, go to the loo, or eat, now’s the time to do it,” he told them.   
  
John slid out and surveyed the area while the aliens followed suit. Mycroft stood next to the driver, but Sherlock moved to John and informed him, “The driver doesn’t know about us.”   
  
“Oh? Mycroft checked with the prime minister?”   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, of course not; why bother? It’s obvious from the way he’s acting: He’s bored and wondering why he has to cart three seemingly-average people across the United Kingdom. Not exactly the reaction you’d expect from someone who’s transporting the only two members of their species on the planet. Incidentally, he’s barely going to get back to London in time to watch his daughter – nine or ten years of age, I’d estimate – perform in a dance recital tomorrow. That works well for us: He’ll be in a hurry, so we won’t have to sit in the car as long.”   
  
John stared and shook his head. “Why do I even ask anymore?” He grinned at Sherlock, noticing that the driver had finished filling the tank, and nodded to the car. “Shall we?”   
  
“Are you going to use me as a bed again?” Sherlock asked dryly, already walking over to the car.   
  
“Don’t even pretend it bothered you,” John said, rolling his eyes and following Sherlock. He determinedly ignored the warmth in his cheeks. “Besides, I didn’t sleep well last night for obvious reasons.”   
  
“Well, if you’re going to make such a fuss about it,” Sherlock teased as they slipped back into the car beside Mycroft, “go ahead and sleep on me.” The driver got in and started driving again.   
  
Several miles later, John remembered Moriarty’s description of the alien scouting party. Wondering how much he could freely talk about with the aliens, John tilted his head towards the driver and gestured to his ear. _Can he hear us?_   
  
“The window is completely sealed,” Sherlock told him. “Unless he rolls it down, the two compartments are essentially soundproofed.” He tilted his head. “That _is_ what you were asking, right?”   
  
“Yeah.” John relaxed into the seat and turned slightly to face the aliens. “So, what _did_ happen to Johanna Flahave?”   
  
“We don’t know,” Mycroft said. “There was no record of her in the memories that the scouts passed on.”   
  
“Unfortunately, that means that they almost certainly deleted some of their memories before returning to our planet,” Sherlock added. “We can’t even ask them when we get back in contact with them because they won’t remember.” A frustrated ripple shivered down his side. “If they’d passed on the memory of Flahave’s form, I wouldn’t have needed to do the same to you later.”   
  
“Don’t worry about it,” John said. “Hey, what did they tell you about Earth before you came?” _Mycroft mentioned that the scouting party determined that the planet was survivable for them and that humans had war problems, but what else did they find?_   
  
“They showed us that humans are the primary species on the planet, and that you were apparently responsible for the destruction on your planet. We had a few images of posters and advertisements and people reading books – we didn’t know what they were at the time, of course. For the most part, the scouts tried to avoid humans because we weren’t sure whether you could sense us through something other than sight.” Sherlock paused in his explanation and smiled. “There were many images of your landscapes and life forms. It’s a large part of why I chose to go through training so that I could go with Mycroft instead of the partner our people had picked out for him. John, your planet is beautiful.”   
  
“Thanks, I suppose,” John replied, flushing lightly at the compliment. “Wait, so you took another guy’s place?”   
  
“Of course,” Sherlock said, tilting his head. “We depend on touch for our sanity, John; do you honestly think that we’d send someone on a solo mission for this long? If I hadn’t hit that satellite and crashed in Afghanistan, I’d have been with Mycroft almost the entire time.”

John nodded and fell silent. _So many things could have gone wrong, and I would have never met Sherlock. He wasn’t even supposed to come here in the first place!_ He leaned into Sherlock, who wrapped an arm around him. _He has changed the course of my life._   
  
The landscape passed them by, and John watched it with a new appreciation. _Our planet really is beautiful,_ he thought. _I forget; I get used to it. But, it’s amazing, and it drew Sherlock to me._ Lost in thought and appreciation, John barely noticed the kilometres fly by, drowsing again, and soon enough they were on a small boat to the Orkney Islands.   


* * *

A different car was waiting for them when they got off the boat, headlights illuminating the dark path; their first driver had left them at the water’s edge and returned to London. “Good afternoon,” the new driver greeted them when they’d all piled in. John noticed that her gaze lingered on Sherlock and Mycroft. _This one clearly does know about us._ “My name is Allison Marsh; I’m your transportation to the base, and I’ll be your guide once we arrive. I trust your trip was pleasant so far?”   
  
“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “I am Mycroft Holmes, but I’m sure you knew that already.”   
  
“Right you are,” Allison agreed. “The one in the middle must be Sherlock, and the blonde is Dr. John Watson, right?”   
  
“That’s me,” John answered, nodding to the woman’s image in the mirror. “Where, exactly, are we going?”   
  
“Eynhallow Island. We’ve got a secure scientific facility set up there, believe it or not.” She shrugged. “It’s not huge, but it’s up to date and out of the way. Home sweet home.”   
  
“You live on site?”   
  
“Mm-hm. You will too, while you’re here. The facility isn’t open to the public, so even though the island is supposedly uninhabited we have to avoid drawing attention to it.” Allison smiled and glanced at them through the mirror. “So, extraterrestrials, huh? How’d that happen?”   
  
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her and quipped, “So, humans, huh? How’d that happen?” John chuckled.   
  
“Fair enough,” Allison allowed, laughing quietly. She turned off the road and pulled up to a nondescript, solitary building before getting out of the car. “I’ll be right back.”   
  
John watched, eyebrow raised, as she flipped up part of the wall to expose a hidden panel; she typed in a code and got back into the car as a large warehouse-style door opened. “The waters are dangerous to cross by boat, even during the day” she explained, “so several years ago we built a tunnel to connect Eynhallow to the mainland.” She drove into the building, and the doors shut behind them. Once they were sealed inside, several lights came on and revealed a ramp leading belowground. “I hope none of you are particularly claustrophobic.”   
  
If he had to guess, John would have said that they traveled a little less than three kilometres before taking a second ramp up to an underground parking facility. Allison parked and opened the boot of the car. “Welcome to Eynhallow,” she said. “Grab your luggage, and I’ll take you to your rooms. Oh, and we’ll need to confiscate your wallets for the duration of your stay.” At John’s surprised expression, she shrugged apologetically. “It’s policy.”   
  
Sighing, John pulled out his wallet and handed it over; to his surprise, Sherlock and Mycroft handed theirs over, too. _I guess they can’t form_ everything _from themselves,_ he reasoned.   
  
Allison smiled and led them through the halls, the occasional bystander staring at them curiously, and showed them to a suite of connected rooms. “You’ll be given free reign of our facilities,” she told them, “with a few exceptions. Obviously, as civilians – more or less – there are a few things that are off-limits. For the most part, we’ve cleared out anything extremely confidential in preparation for your arrival.”   
  
“You’ve been busy,” Sherlock commented. _Mycroft only talked to them this morning,_ John realized. _They’ve done all of this in less than fifteen hours. That explains the long car ride, I suppose._

“We have,” Allison agreed. “The prime minister will arrive tomorrow morning” – John glanced incredulously at Sherlock: _I thought we were just explaining everything to an underling; the prime minister is coming himself?! I think I might be out of my depth_ – “so I’ll be back to give you a tour of the facilities around eight. If you need anything, just step outside and knock on one of the doors in this hall.” She left, and John set his bags beside one of the beds.  
  
“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock ordered; John happily complied after changing into his sleepwear in the adjoining water closet. _Everything is happening so quickly,_ he thought while brushing his teeth. _How am I supposed to keep up?_ Mycroft and Sherlock had devolved into puddles by the time he slipped into bed; with Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his wrist, he could _almost_ pretend that he was back at Baker Street and that the last week hadn’t happened.  


* * *

Allison showed up at eight o’clock, just as she had promised, and took them on a tour of the base. She occasionally introduced them to the other people they saw. “Devon Claybourn is going to be in charge of examinations,” she said of one man, pointing him out as he walked through the cafeteria. “He’ll look at you” – she looked at Sherlock and Mycroft – “to see what makes you different from humans. Nothing you’re not comfortable with, of course.” She turned to John. “You’ll be run through a battery of basic medical tests to see if prolonged exposure to extraterrestrials has any effect on the human body.”   
  
John raised an eyebrow. _I know that there aren’t any_ overt _effects – I am a medical professional,_ he thought, but he changed the topic. “What about you? What do you do here when you’re not guiding alien parties?”   
  
“I’m the base psychologist,” Allison said. “Living underground and isolated from the rest of the world for so long isn’t healthy for people; it’s my job to make sure that everyone gets enough time off aboveground to stay sane.”   
  
“This entire building is underground?” Sherlock repeated, swinging around to stare at her. At Allison’s affirmative response, he verified, “None of the rooms have windows – all of the light is artificial?”   
  
“Correct,” she replied, brow furrowed. “Why?”   
  
“We have a problem.” Sherlock spun around, grabbing Mycroft’s hand, and John noticed the slight blurring of their features with a stab of worry.   
  
“Sherlock?” he asked, laying a hand on the alien’s shoulder.   
  
“We need sunlight – starlight, at the very least – to survive,” Mycroft explained. “It’s our source of energy.”   
  
“Oh,” Allison said, eyes wide. “How long can you go without? Do we need to go up now?”   
  
Mycroft shook his head, calming a bit. “No, we can go a day before we start to get – hungry, I suppose. It’ll take a couple of days before we start feeling adverse effects, but after that point everything moves quickly.” _They die,_ John realized with a jolt of panic. His grip on Sherlock’s shoulder tightened convulsively.   
  
Allison nodded. “I’ll make sure that you’re brought to the surface every day. How long do you need out there?”   
  
“It depends on the strength of the source,” Sherlock replied, nearly relaxed now that their immediate lives weren’t threatened. “During the day, fifteen minutes should suffice; at night, an hour.”   
  
Checking her watch, Allison decided, “The prime minister should be arriving soon; he and the director will want to talk with you. We can bring it up with them then.”   


* * *

The next few hours were spent in a meeting with the prime minister and the director of the base. John, for the most part, merely watched while Mycroft, Sherlock, and the two officials discussed the aliens’ reason for coming to Earth, their actions of the last two years (Moriarty’s death was, of course, edited out, but John got an interested glance from the prime minister when Sherlock admitted to spending nearly a year with him in Afghanistan.), and their plans now that they had revealed themselves to the Government of the United Kingdom. Both sides seemed eager to cooperate, and the director happily granted Sherlock and Mycroft permission to go to the surface for half an hour every day – as long as they didn’t draw attention to their presence.

John felt a great deal better about the entire situation when they were dismissed to get a late breakfast in the cafeteria: The prime minister had agreed to release a story saying that the pool explosion and accompanying video were parts of a strange terrorist attack with the assurance that most of those responsible were already in custody, hopefully drawing attention away from John and Sherlock. Mycroft excused himself to make some more calls – “The American President is next on my list,” he told them, turning down a hallway – so Sherlock accompanied John to breakfast.   
  
“Now, wait a minute,” John realized as he walked through the serving line. “You feed off sunlight, but you live in _London?_ Isn’t that somewhat counterproductive?”   
  
“You’re referring to the constant cloud cover?” Sherlock verified. At John’s affirmative, he said, “You can get sunburned in London, even when it’s overcast, correct?”   
  
“Well, yes.” It happened surprisingly frequently, actually.   
  
“Then we have access to sunlight.” Sherlock grimaced at the bacon and nudged John past before he could grab any.   
  
_Still, wouldn’t it be easier to just live somewhere sunny? Like Florida?_ John shook his head and finished loading his plate, dismissing the topic.   
  
Allison was sitting at one table with the guy in charge of their examinations and someone else when they walked past; she noticed them and waved them over. “Dr. Watson; Mr. Holmes!” She introduced them to the others, “These are Devon Claybourn and Arnold Zimmerman. Guys, meet Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”   
  
They exchanged greetings and sat with the group, John shoulder-to-shoulder with Sherlock. “So, Mr. Holmes,” Claybourn began. “Are you enjoying Earth?”   
  
“Just Sherlock is fine,” he corrected while John ate. “Earth is fascinating; there’s so much to experience here.”   
  
“So you’re here on vacation, basically?” Zimmerman asked. _They must not have debriefed everyone totally,_ John thought.   
  
“No; we’re here on a peace mission. Your planet suffers from wars and murders. We want to help.”   
  
Zimmerman raised an eyebrow. “You traveled across God-knows how many galaxies to our planet, just to help us? Come on; it’s a nice sentiment, sure, but that can’t be everything. What’s in it for you?” He jolted suddenly, and John suspected that someone had kicked him under the table.   
  
Sherlock tilted his head. “Besides knowing that there’s one less species out to kill itself and others? Mycroft is hoping that when you achieve world peace, he’ll be able to introduce our species on a wider scale.” He shrugged. “We’re curious, and your planet is interesting.” John grinned at him, and Sherlock smiled back.   
  
“What is your planet like?” Allison asked, and Sherlock turned to describe his home world while John finished his breakfast. He’d just downed the last bite when Mycroft entered the room and moved to place a hand on Sherlock’s head.   
  
“Excuse us,” Sherlock said, stopping his explanation mid-sentence and rising. He glanced at John and tilted his head towards the door.   
  
John wiped his hands on the napkin and stood as well. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he told the group.   
  
“You, too,” they chorused back, looking bemused at the sudden departure. As they walked out the door, Allison called, “Be in your room in thirty minutes; I’ll give you the schedule for the day!”   
  
“What’s going on?” John asked Mycroft when they had returned to their suite.   
  
“I can’t make any phone calls,” Mycroft informed him, face slightly blurred. “They won’t go through.”   
  
“We are a little out of the way,” John reminded him. “There may not be any reception out here.” He pulled out his own mobile. “I’ll try calling Lestrade. I should tell him that we’re okay, at the least.”   
  
There wasn’t a signal for his phone, and John shrugged. “No reception,” he confirmed. “But we’re in a government facility. They have to have telephone services somewhere, even if it’s just a landline.”   
  
Sherlock scowled. “Yes, but the director wouldn’t let him use it.” John blinked before realizing that Mycroft had told him through their touch.   
  
_He was denied the use of a telephone? That’s not a very good sign._ Some of the optimism from their earlier meeting began to dissipate. “Why not?”

“He told me that it was for emergency usage only.”  
  
“I don’t like this,” Sherlock muttered. “They’re cutting off our communications.”  
  
John was inclined to agree, but Mycroft shook his head. “We need them to work with us; to that end, we need to cooperate with them and prove that we can be trusted.”  
  
“It’s not right, though,” John said. With a sinking feeling, he realized, “They never told us how long they planned for us to stay.”  
  
“I’ll ask,” Sherlock promised, and they waited for Allison to collect them for the day’s activities.  
  
Interestingly enough, the director had to take care of some business off-base that afternoon, and he wasn’t available to speak with him. No one else seemed to know the intended duration of their stay. John tried to stifle his discomfort at the situation and take Mycroft’s words to heart. _It doesn’t look good from their perspective,_ he admitted, adopting the government’s point of view. _They’ve been sharing government secrets with an alien, but they didn’t know it. We need to build trust. It would be nice if they were more_ helpful _about it, though._  
  
Sherlock was significantly more displeased by the events. “They’re isolating us,” he snarled, face losing definition. “They’ve cut off communication with the rest of the world, and they’re refusing to give us a date on our release – Don’t you see it, Mycroft? They’re not going to let us go; we have to escape.”  
  
“You’re overreacting,” Mycroft told him. “It’s all politics: They think this is a power struggle, and we need to _cooperate_ to show them that it’s not. When they understand that we don’t want to control them, they’ll work with us.”  
  
“You’re naïve,” Sherlock accused, but he fell silent and merely grabbed John’s hand for comfort.  


* * *

“So, what exactly are we supposed to get accomplished here?” John asked, glancing around Allison’s office.   
  
“I’m getting a human’s perspective on alien psychology and behaviour,” Allison replied. She leaned back in her chair across the desk. “How did you meet them?”   
  
“Sherlock crashed in Afghanistan; I found him in the wreckage.”   
  
“Afghanistan?” she repeated. “And you were there as a soldier?”   
  
“As a field surgeon, actually, but yes.”   
  
“I thought they were pacifists.”   
  
“They are,” John assured her. “It’s made some of our conversations very interesting.”   
  
“Dr. Watson,” she said slowly, “did you bring a representative of a pacifist alien species into a _war?”_   
  
“Well, he kind of landed there under his own power – more or less – but he went out onto the battlefield with me.” He got the distinct impression that Allison wanted to bash her head against her desk, so he gave her some help. “It was only because I’m primarily a doctor, not a soldier,” he explained. “I was there to save lives rather than take them. They knew that we were at war with ourselves when they came; it’s why they came in the first place. Granted, I didn’t know it at the time, but hiding them away from the reality of our world would have been worse than useless.”   
  
“That is one way to look at it,” Allison muttered. She shook her head and changed the topic, and they spent the remainder of the session discussing John’s view of Sherlock’s actions during Afghanistan.   


* * *

After his session with Allison, John met Sherlock and Mycroft in the labs. Claybourn was talking to the two aliens while Zimmerman examined something through a microscope, so John joined the interview.   
  
“We can shift our bodies into any shape and colour,” Sherlock was explaining. “It’s – Oh, here; I’ll just show you.” With no further warning, he dropped to the ground and devolved into a puddle. Claybourn jumped back with a comical yelp, and Zimmerman nearly dropped a slide.   
  
“Subtlety, Sherlock,” John reminded him while Mycroft closed his eyes and rippled gently. Sherlock flopped over himself and curled around one of John’s legs.   
  
“Incredible!” Claybourn exclaimed, crouching beside Sherlock and John. “Are there any structural supports, or are you entirely flexible?”   
  
“We have no bones,” Mycroft replied. Sherlock abruptly turned blue. “We have total control over our form and colour. I believe you have a few species on your own planet that can do the same. Are you familiar with cuttlefish?”

Claybourn continued to question Mycroft, and Sherlock alternated between demonstrating Mycroft’s point at the moment and playing with John. When Claybourn asked about the aliens’ strength, John found himself hoisted into the air as an unwilling prop. John noticed that Zimmerman huffed and rolled his eyes at the display, but he finished with whatever he was looking at and waved Claybourn over.   
  
“Look at the structure,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”   
  
John quickly realized that one of the brothers – Sherlock – had given up a sample for the microscope. Sherlock reformed to ask questions, and John crossed his arms beside Mycroft while they watched the scientists create theories about the aliens’ biological makeup. “You don’t know what you’re made of?” John asked, surprised.   
  
“Of course we do,” Mycroft replied. “We tried explaining it earlier, but they were interested in seeing for themselves – reaching the conclusions by their own merits, as it were.” He was a little undefined, probably uncomfortable with the situation as a whole. John reached up to brush a comforting hand over Mycroft’s hair, but Mycroft took that moment to step closer to his brother and regain the group’s attention. John was left with his hand hanging foolishly in midair; he dropped it back to his side and attended to the remaining examinations and tests for the afternoon.   


* * *

Mycroft’s rejection of John’s touch in the labs continued to bother John for the next two days. He noticed that Mycroft was subtly avoiding John, and it was with a sinking sensation that he realized the last time Mycroft had come into contact with him was the morning after the pool. On their way to meet Sherlock after another round of tests – Sherlock had been in an appointment with Allison – he confronted the alien.   
  
“Can I talk to you?” John asked, blocking Mycroft’s way. After a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft nodded; John led him back to their suite and closed the door behind them. “You haven’t touched me since – since the morning after,” John said, guts twisting unpleasantly. “You’ve barely spoken to me in that time. What’s going on?”   
  
“Nothing, John; I’m very busy, that’s all,” Mycroft replied blandly. His skin was undefined, though, and it vibrated with tiny ripples. The alien gave John a perfectly false politician’s smile, and it was like being slapped.   
  
“That’s it?” John snarled, suddenly furious. “Everything we’ve been through, and you’re just _busy?_ Bullshit, Mycroft.” He closed his eyes, hurt overriding the anger. “You promised that you’d never lie to me,” he said.   
  
“You want me to be honest?” Mycroft asked flatly. “You made me kill.” His skin rippled violently, but his voice was even. “I would have never taken a life if it weren’t for you.” John stared, horrified, as Mycroft advanced on him. “You were my adoptive brother, but now I can’t look at you without seeing Moriarty’s back and finding the most lethal shot; I can’t even imagine touching you without remembering his heart pumping around me as I killed him.” His face blurred. “I destroyed everything I stood for, and it’s _all. Your. Fault.”_   
  
John could barely breathe, looking at the furious, broken alien looming over him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, wishing it could be enough.   
  
Mycroft watched him for several seconds more before abruptly stepping back and turning away. “No, I am,” he replied. “It’s not your fault. I _know_ that, but I can’t help…” A ripple slid over his form. “I can’t help associating you with it. It’s not your fault, John.” He shrugged.   
  
“If I hadn’t been there, though,” John muttered guiltily, but Mycroft cut him off.   
  
“Did you choose to go? No. Moriarty abducted you. It’s _not your fault,_ John; I’m sorry for saying it was.” He sighed. “Just leave me be. It’s my problem, not yours.” Mycroft slipped past John but hesitated at the door. “I’m sorry.”   
  
“You’re still my brother, Mycroft,” John said, head bowed. “You know that, right?” His heart clenched at the telling silence behind him. When he turned around, Mycroft was gone.

Eventually, John tore his gaze from the hall and collapsed on the bed to stare at the ceiling instead. _Mycroft sees me and thinks of the pool._ The sentence ran around and around in his head, twisting circles and taunting him. _He sees me and thinks of killing Moriarty._ John closed his eyes and wished that he could go back and shoot Moriarty himself so that Mycroft would be free of his guilt. _He adopted me as a brother – he said it before Sherlock ever did – but now he won’t even touch me._ Mycroft had been the one to center him in his nightmares with physical contact. _I’m never going to get that from him again – I’ve lost him as a sibling._ He’d been disowned, and it was surprisingly painful considering the short time he’d been a part of their family.   
  
Several minutes passed before the door opened again. “John?” Sherlock asked. “Are you alright?”   
  
“No,” he replied flatly, opening his eyes and returning his gaze to the ceiling. “Mycroft won’t touch me; he doesn’t want me as a brother anymore. He says I remind him of murdering Moriarty.”   
  
“Oh.” _Yeah: Oh._ Sherlock leaned on the edge of the bed to peer into John’s face. He sighed at whatever he saw and dropped down to wrap around John. “It’s not your fault.”   
  
“If you say so,” John agreed without conviction.   
  
Sherlock tightened his grip and whispered, “He’s hurting. It scares me; you can’t see it, but he feels – almost broken, inside. I don’t know how to fix it.” A single ripple spread over his body. “If we were still on our planet, he’d get professional help. Here, though, it’s not an option. You don’t have what we need.”   
  
John thought of their conversation just before the whole problem with Moriarty had started. “Can’t he just delete it?”   
  
“It’s tied into too many other things,” Sherlock denied. “He has to keep it.”   
  
_He’s never going to forget that he killed for me,_ John translated, _and he’ll never really forgive me for it. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid with Sherlock._ He clutched Sherlock close and curled into him on the small bed. _I’m sorry, Mycroft. I’m so, so sorry._

* * *

Two days later, John was a few minutes early for his evening appointment with Allison, so he reached out to knock on the door and see if she was ready for him. Just before his knuckles would have connected with the wood, a man inside shouted, “I can’t just smile at that alien-fucking poof and pretend it’s okay!”   
  
Frozen in shock, John clearly heard Allison’s biting response: “Deal with it, Arnold. We are working with ambassadors from _another planet;_ you will _not_ screw it up because you don’t like their relationship with a human. There is such a thing as sexual deviancy; grow up.”   
  
“There’s deviancy, and then there’s flaunting it in front of us. I know you see how they practically sit on each other, the way the act around each other. It’s so obvious; haven’t they got any decency? The alien’s probably buggering Watson right in the middle of the cafeteria.”   
  
“Arnold, you’re over the line,” Allison snarled. “There are plenty of reasons they’d be that tactile with each other, and not all of them involve sex. It’s part of their relationship.”   
  
“It’s disgusting,” Zimmerman spat.   
  
_‘You’re all so_ disgusting,’ a memory of Moriarty echoed; John thought he might be sick. He took a step back from the door, trying to suppress his hurt and fury. _We need their help,_ he thought. _I can’t wreck this for Sherlock and Mycroft._

When Zimmerman walked out of the door a few minutes later and gave John a smile that looked more like a sneer, it took every bit of will in his body to smile back and not slam his fist into the bastard’s face. John watched him go and turned back to the door to Allison’s office, trying to calm himself down so that he could walk in and pretend that he hadn’t just heard her discussing his imaginary sex life. She’d probably act like nothing had happened, all the while watching him and analyzing his words to search for some hidden innuendo. He noticed pain in his hand and glanced down to his side, surprised to see it clenched into a tight fist. _Fuck this,_ he thought, turning away and heading back to his room.   


* * *

Sherlock, of course, figured out that something was bothering John within seconds. “What happened?” he asked, pulling John into their suite and waving Mycroft on. “You’re supposed to be talking to Allison.”   
  
“I don’t give a damn about _Miss Marsh_ at the moment, thanks,” John snarled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “She can jump off a cliff, for all I care – Arnold Zimmerman, too. Bastard,” he added as an afterthought.   
  
His vehemence caused Sherlock to raise his eyebrows and kneel before John, resting his hands on John’s knees. “Perhaps you’d better start from the beginning,” he suggested.   
  
John related what he’d heard outside the office door, and Sherlock rippled with increasing intensity. “I just want to go home,” John sighed. _I want to sleep in my own bed and talk to my friends._   
  
“That’s fine,” Sherlock said, “because we’re leaving.”   
  
“What? We can’t – What about proving that we’re trustworthy and all that?” John hopped to his feet and followed Sherlock out the door.   
  
“It’s been six days. If they’re not extending the basic courtesy of _telephone service_ to us yet, it’s time to go.” He glanced back at John. “You’re one of them, and they’re practically labeling you as a traitor.”   
  
Arnold Zimmerman wasn’t in the labs when they arrived, at least; Mycroft was talking to Claybourn, but he looked up at them when they walked in. Sherlock strode forward, still rippling, and grabbed Mycroft’s hand; a second later, Mycroft nodded and excused himself.   
  
“We’re going to the director’s office,” Mycroft announced as they trailed into the hall.   
  
Interestingly enough, the director’s secretary managed to get him back on base in less than ten minutes after she heard Mycroft’s demand. Unfortunately, he was singularly unimpressed with their request for release. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said – the worst of it was that he actually  _sounded_ apologetic. “We need you to remain here until we’ve finished debriefing the necessary people. Your cooperation is, of course, appreciated.” He glanced between Sherlock and Mycroft. “Isn’t it about time that you go to the surface to sunbathe?”   
  
Despite all of their protests, a set of security guards escorted John back to his room; another unit took Mycroft and Sherlock to the surface. They rippled heavily but didn’t physically struggle, probably at Mycroft’s urging. _It’s happening: Everything that Mycroft feared from watching those stupid B movies is happening._ John desperately wished he could go with them – once they were outside, escaping would be simple – but acquiesced to the directions he was given. They locked the door behind him.   
  
Sherlock and Mycroft didn’t come back that night. John curled up on the bed, trying not to imagine them taking their chance and leaving while they were outside – surely, he would have been informed if they had? Besides, Sherlock wouldn’t just leave him there like that; he’d promised not to leave John again. He was fairly certain that Mycroft wouldn’t either, but the alien’s recent attitude towards him left a few small doubts in his mind. _I’m overreacting,_ John chided himself. _Mycroft doesn’t hate me; he told me himself that he was sorry for being angry with me._

The nightmares came back that night, and without Sherlock’s comforting grip around his wrist, he couldn’t quite calm himself enough to fall back asleep. When the telltale slide of oil-plastic came against his ankle around three in the morning, John half-thought he had fallen back asleep and was dreaming it. The tendril twisted up his leg and wrapped around his wrist; it stayed, reassuringly, for the remainder of the night until a knock came on his door and Allison called, “John? Are you dressed?”   
  
The tendril slipped away from John, and he watched the unobtrusive bump in the floor recede back under the door. “Yes,” he called back, and Allison typed in the code to unlock his door.   
  
She pulled it open and smiled broadly at him, ignoring his glower. “Good morning, John. Today is going to be a bit different; Sherlock and Mycroft are running on a different schedule to you, now.” _That’s how it’s going to be, huh? Divide and conquer: They’re separating us from each other to keep us unorganized._   
  
Thus began his first day in captivity.   


* * *

John made a point to be obstinate about every task they gave him without being belligerent. He had the pleasant reward of seeing Allison purse her lips – the first sign of annoyance or frustration he’d seen out of her – and Claybourn throwing his hands in the air and cutting their session short. Faith in Sherlock and Mycroft’s strategy kept him from overtly protesting his imprisonment as a British citizen, but he took satisfaction in his small rebellions. John hadn’t done anything _wrong,_ per se, but he’d affected ignorance or inattention whenever anyone asked him a question, no matter how simple.   
  
He worried about what had happened to the aliens; beyond that single tentacle in the morning, he’d seen no sign of them through the entire day. A small company of security guards escorted him through the day’s activities, but he was sure that Sherlock and Mycroft could have easily bypassed them if they’d wanted to. His gut twisted as the hours passed, and he barely managed to finish his dinner that evening for the tension.   
  
The one good thing about the day was that he hadn’t seen Arnold Zimmerman, either. He suspected that the man had chosen to transfer off-base rather than deal with the _‘alien-fucking poof’_ any longer. As far as John was concerned, it was good riddance.   
  
After his ‘workday’ finished around eight, the security guards escorted him back to his room and once again locked him in. _This has to be a safety violation,_ John fumed mentally, settling in on the bed. _And, I’m out of clean clothes._ He sighed, wondering if he could call someone to wash them for him.   
  
John forced himself to relax into the bed as he waited for Sherlock – it had to be Sherlock; Mycroft still wasn’t touching him – to reappear. It took several hours, but eventually John felt the press against his wrist in the darkness and brushed his hand over Sherlock in greeting. This time, however, Sherlock pulled the rest of himself under the door and reformed completely.   
  
“Are you alright?” he asked first, running his hands over John’s body as if checking for injuries. John felt a twinge of shamed arousal at the innocent touch. “They haven’t harmed you?”   
  
“I’m fine. You?” John could barely see Sherlock’s silhouette.   
  
“Fine. If there’s anything here that you want to take with you, grab it now; we’re getting out of here tonight.” Sherlock straightened and moved towards John’s luggage. “I’ve already collected our wallets,” he added, handing John’s over.   
  
“My phone,” John replied, pocketing the object as Sherlock collected it, “and that’s about it. How are we escaping?”   
  
“Mycroft and I spent most of last night working out the security layout,” Sherlock said, pulling John to his feet. “The director is using you as collateral to convince us to cooperate and stay here, but we’ve figured out how to remove you from the base.” He wrapped John in an embrace before hesitating. “Do you trust me?”   
  
_Oh, hell,_ John thought. _Every time someone asks that question in this kind of situation, it ends up with the other guy almost having a heart attack. Still…_ “Yes.”

“Good. I need to disguise you. Relax, don’t fight me, and try not to freak out,” Sherlock said. With no further warning, he surged over John and recreated their first meeting.  
  
John struggled to keep his body still and his breathing steady as Sherlock coated his entire body, slipping over his head and into his mouth. He gagged slightly at the alien’s revolting taste against his tongue as Sherlock hollowed himself into a tube inside John’s throat, and he felt a stronger panic when he couldn’t open his eyes, but beyond a few involuntary twitches and aborted movements, he remained frozen in place. _I trust him,_ he repeated to himself in a mantra, forcing his muscles to relax. _I trust him._ Sherlock squeezed his wrist gently in comfort and took a step forward with John’s body.  
  
The lack of control in conjunction with the lack of sight triggered a primal reaction of intense panic, and Sherlock had to relax his hold over John or risk injuring him. John immediately brought his hands up to claw at his eyes, and Sherlock pulled back to let him see the shadows in the room. _Calm down!_ he chastised himself. _It’s just Sherlock; I trust him._ Slowly, his heart rate returned to normal; he took several more deep breaths and forced his muscles to relax again. Sherlock took the cue to close his eyes and regain control over John’s body, taking another step forward.  
  
It was still terrifying – John couldn’t see a thing, and for all he knew Sherlock was about to walk him into a wall – but he kept himself relaxed and let Sherlock move him; a few more steps had their combined movement working fluidly. He heard the door opening and wondered how Sherlock had opened it before realizing that the alien must have seen Allison punch in the code when she had come to John’s room that morning. _Mycroft is probably outside, waiting for us,_ he thought. Sherlock had left his ears uncovered, for which he was grateful; he suspected that full sensory deprivation would have been entirely too much for him to handle. The door closed behind them.  
  
They walked down the hall and took a few turns before Sherlock abruptly stopped. He opened John’s mouth and pressed just below John’s ribs, forcing him to exhale. “Miss Marsh,” he greeted in a voice that _definitely_ wasn’t John’s own. _He’s manipulating my vocal cords, too. How can he doing that?!_  
  
John could just hear the sound of heels on the hard floor. “Doctor Claybourn,” Allison replied. If he’d been able to, John would have blinked in surprise. _I don’t look anything like Claybourn! What the hell did Sherlock_ do _to me?!_ “You’re out and about rather late this evening.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged John’s shoulder. “I had an idea about the aliens’ composition while I was trying to sleep; I wanted to test it out before I forgot it.”  
  
“Best of luck, then,” Allison said, voice drifting away. “Don’t stay up all night.”  
  
“Of course not,” Sherlock called after her, resuming motion. “Sleep well.” He took several more turns and walked through a door.  
  
“Director,” an unfamiliar voice acknowledged. _Now I look like the director?_ John wondered.  
  
“At ease,” Sherlock replied with a perfect replica of the director’s voice and intonation. “I’m going to the surface for a few minutes; close the door after me, but be ready to let me back in.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” the other man said. John figured that he was probably a security guard. Sherlock walked through another door and started climbing a staircase – John lost count of the stairs after forty-two. _We must be almost out,_ John thought, _but where’s Mycroft? Has he been following us the entire time, or are we meeting him outside?_ Sherlock opened another door and stepped through, peeling away from John’s head the moment the door closed behind him. John took a deep breath of the refreshing outside air. _We’re out!_

John staggered slightly as he was unceremoniously returned the use of his limbs; Sherlock reformed in front of him and tugged him along. “Mycroft is providing the illusion that he and I are still in our containment chamber – we _told_ them that we could form any shape; did they not listen? – but you’ll be unaccounted for. It won’t take long for them to realize that you’re missing, by which point Mycroft will have removed himself and followed us out. Before that happens, we need to get you out of here.”   
  
Reeling at the rapid-fire explanation, John mutely ran beside Sherlock and wished that it were still day: The terrain was just uneven enough to nearly trip him up several times, and the shadows from the moon weren’t very helpful. They’d made it far enough that John could clearly hear the waves in the sound breaking against the bluffs when shouts started ringing out and the area lit up with search lights.   
  
_“What the hell?!”_ John gasped, glancing over his shoulder at the previously hidden floodlights. _I thought this was supposed to be a secret base!_ He huffed a few breaths and ran faster, barely noticing when Sherlock shifted back into a puddle beside him.   
  
Several steps later, he realized a problem. “Sherlock,” he gasped. “We’re heading for _cliffs!”_ The alien didn’t respond, and when John started to slow down with uncertainty he nudged John’s back to urge him forward. _You had better have an excellent plan for this,_ he thought, picking up his speed again. The shouts behind him were suddenly drowned out by motors, and John glanced behind himself incredulously to see a few off-road vehicles bearing down on them. _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._   
  
Then they were at the cliffs. Sherlock wrapped John up in a bubble, sides collapsing inward to hold John securely while leaving space around his head for him to breathe, before launching them both over the edge. John screwed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth against the pounding of his heart, forcing himself to not flail against the alien’s grip, and prayed that Sherlock was strong enough to break their fall against the rocks or water or whatever was waiting for them below.   
  
_Water,_ he guessed based on the sound of a tremendous splash. Sherlock resurfaced, unwound himself and held John mostly above the water by spreading himself out into a large, thin raft. John gasped for breath, trying to calm the frantic pace of his pulse, and glanced behind him at the cliff. “Holy hell,” he breathed, estimating that they had fallen nearly twenty metres. Lights appeared at the top of the cliff, and someone turned a searchlight on them. John heard another motor in the distance and groaned. “A boat. Of course they’ve got a fucking _boat.”_   
  
Sherlock seemed to agree with the sentiment; John felt a single, violent ripple before Sherlock abruptly folded up around John like a flower blooming in reverse and pulled him completely underwater. “Sherlock?!” John gasped, staring up at the tiny circle of stars far above him. He had just enough room to twist around in the bubble of space Sherlock had created for him, and he found himself almost desperately trying to calculate how thin the layer of alien skin keeping the water away was. _I’ve got to be at least five metres underwater,_ he thought frantically, heart racing again. _Based on Sherlock’s usual height and the size of the air bubble I’m in, his skin is…way too thin. Christ._   
  
He felt himself start to hyperventilate, hands pressing desperately against the walls that were _way_ too close, and he closed his eyes and tried to focus. _I trust Sherlock. I trust Sherlock._ The surface was so far away, though, and he knew that the water around him must be pitch black and freezing. _I trust Sherlock!_

John dug his hands into the wall of the bubble and suppressed a panicked sob. _I want out I want out I want out I want out,_ he ranted mentally, searching for a mental foothold to calm himself. Sherlock’s skin thinned out even more and wrapped around John’s wrist, pressing gently against the joint. John briefly panicked at being restrained before reminding himself that it was Sherlock, damn it! _Breathe. Just breathe. It’ll be okay; Sherlock won’t hurt me. Breathe._   
  
With Sherlock’s familiar touch grounding him, John found it easier to wrestle his reactions back into relative calm. He leaned forward against the wall of the bubble, determinedly _not_ thinking about how far away the surface of the river was, and focused on breathing steadily. The panicked haze from his mind lifted, and he brought his anxiety levels down to only slightly twitchy. “I’m okay,” he reassured the alien, even though he suspected that Sherlock couldn’t read his lips in the darkness.   
  
They stayed like that for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes before Sherlock brought John back to the surface. He blinked, realizing that they’d crossed the sound and landed on the mainland; Mycroft reformed at the shore and anchored Sherlock as he carried John onto dry land. “Quite the exit,” Mycroft commented when Sherlock had reformed as well.   
  
“Not entirely planned,” Sherlock agreed, checking John over. “Are you okay? You did a good job of not panicking while we were on base, but once we got to the water….” He examined John’s face, hands braced against his shoulders.   
  
John took one more deep breath and let it out, releasing the remains of his terror with it. “Yeah,” he said shakily. “Just – I really don’t think I’ll be going swimming any time soon.” _Or answering ‘yes’ to anyone who asks if I trust them. Fucking hell; I expected one heart attack, not three._   
  
Sherlock held onto his shoulders for a few more seconds – probably searching for a sign that John was about to collapse in a belated anxiety attack – before nodding and drawing John into a hug. “You did really well,” he murmured into John’s hair. John smiled into Sherlock’s neck and hugged him back, feeling the world right itself again.   
  
“We need to move,” Mycroft announced, looking across the water at Eynhallow Island. “They’re going to come after us.”   
  
“We should find a vehicle,” Sherlock decided, stepping away from John.   
  
The sudden intrusion of cold air made him shiver, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. _‘Find a vehicle?’_ “What, you mean steal someone’s car?” John asked, gut twisting in distaste.   
  
“That’s precisely what I mean,” Sherlock replied. “We’ll give it back, of course, but we need fast transportation. One of us can reach around the car to change the license plate.”   
  
“Back to London?” Mycroft asked, glancing over at them.   
  
Swallowing his discomfort at the idea – he really didn’t have a better plan to offer – John nodded in agreement. “I’m driving, though,” he demanded when they’d liberated an old four-door that seemed in decent shape. “I’d bet that neither of you have ever driven a car before.”   
  
“It can’t be that hard,” Sherlock grumbled. He slid into the passenger seat without complaint, however, and Mycroft took the back seat with one arm out the window and wrapping around the car to disguise the plates. John nodded and started the car – Sherlock had burgled the keys from the owner’s house – before pulling onto the main road and heading for England.   


* * *

After the adrenaline from the escape had faded a bit, John resorted to chattering with Sherlock to keep himself alert. “So, how is it that you knew exactly how to manipulate my vocal cords to mimic other people but didn’t know that we store our memories in our brains?” he teased.   
  
To his surprise, Sherlock’s face went blank for a split second before gaining a slightly blurred expression of frustration. _What was that about?_ “I’d only forgotten about the memories momentarily,” Sherlock explained. “As soon as you said it, I remembered.”

“Really.” John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock’s body language was too stiff: He was dissembling. “You, with the perfect memory recall – except when you delete things, apparently – momentarily forgot something?” _Not buying it._  
  
Sherlock rippled once and shrugged. “There’s a first for everything,” he demurred. “I wasn’t paying attention, so I failed to make the connection.”  
  
John threw his mind back to that morning, trying to remember how Sherlock had acted. “You didn’t seem distracted,” he accused. On the contrary, Sherlock had been even more attentive than usual. “Was it because you were thinking about me going to lunch with Sally and Alan?” He immediately winced at his lack of subtlety. _Oh, hell. Way to be obvious, John. Please, Sherlock, don’t pick up on that._  
  
“That was probably a part of it,” Sherlock agreed, watching John. _How did I become the one on the defensive, here?! Wait. He was distracted because I was going to lunch with Sally and Alan?_  
  
Tightening his hands on the wheel to ground himself, John forced the hopeful thoughts from his mind. _Sherlock wasn’t jealous – or if he was, it wasn’t romantic jealousy. Don’t make assumptions; he’s not even of the same_ species. _He was probably just annoyed that I was leaving him behind._ It didn’t quite fit with the way Sherlock tended to act around him, though: The alien wasn’t that clingy… aside from his literal clinginess, of course. Still, it was better than considering the alternative; that way led to imagining false romantic inclinations in the alien and making an arse out of himself when Sherlock inevitably shot him down. “Alright, then,” John said, realizing that the silence after Sherlock’s last statement had stretched for far too long. He cleared his throat and forced his hands to relax.  
  
Sherlock stared at him for a few more seconds, probably analyzing every too-fast heartbeat, before turning the topic of conversation to the route John planned to take back to London. John breathed a sigh of relief and told him that he wouldn’t be able to drive straight through without stopping to sleep somewhere. “I should have enough cash to pay for a room somewhere,” he added, thinking of the crime dramas where the villain was caught after paying with a chip-and-PIN card. “If you could just disguise my hair colour or a few facial features when we go in, we wouldn’t even have to worry about being identified.”  
  
“I could drive while you sleep,” Sherlock suggested.  
  
“You’re not driving,” John disagreed. “We’ll stop for a couple of hours so that I can sleep, and then we’ll keep going.”  
  
“It really doesn’t look that hard,” the alien tried again.  
  
“Sherlock.” John felt his patience wearing. “You’re _not driving.”_ At the silence that came after that – when he glanced over, Sherlock was sporting a blank expression – John felt his irritation fade. “Sorry,” he muttered. _It’s just the situation; I’m stressed._  
  
“We’ll stop somewhere,” Sherlock agreed, giving him a small smile as an offering of peace. John gladly returned it.

Almost an hour later John realized that while Sherlock was happy to talk to him and help him stay alert, Mycroft hadn’t spoken a word. When he glanced back in the rearview mirror, he saw that the alien had devolved back into his natural form and plastered himself against the side windows. “Sherlock?” John asked uncertainly. “What is he doing? It’s past midnight; there’s nothing to see out there.”   
  
“There’s always something to see here,” Sherlock replied. “He just darkened his pigment against the window to make it easier. Remember?” In demonstration, Sherlock held up a hand in John’s line of sight and shifted the shade from white to black and back.   
  
“Right,” John agreed. He glanced in the rearview again and pushed down the instinctive grimace. _Mycroft doesn’t want to talk to me, anyway,_ he thought: _Not if I remind him of Moriarty. Maybe it’s for the better._   


* * *

When morning came, John found a small bed and breakfast and pulled in, yawning widely. “Are you coming?” he asked Mycroft when he stepped out and only Sherlock followed.   
  
“Someone needs to disguise the plates on the vehicle,” Mycroft replied, shaking his head.

_I_ _must be more tired than I thought: I forgot about that._ John nodded and waited for Sherlock to wrap an arm over his shoulders as a disguise for the tendril that flattened over his hair and cheeks. In his peripheral vision, he saw his own cheekbones rise and become more defined, and his hair abruptly turned bright red. “Are we ready?” he checked.   
  
Sherlock nodded, shifting several features on himself, and tugged him into the building. The lady manning the counter blinked at them, clearly not expecting a weary traveler so early in the morning, and greeted them pleasantly. “Long trip?” she guessed.   
  
“Very,” John agreed, blinking in exhaustion. Sherlock’s arm over his shoulders tightened to support him when he wavered, and John gratefully leaned into the sturdy alien. “Do you have a room open where I could kip for a few hours?”   
  
She peered at them before smiling with just a bit too much teeth. “We do,” she admitted, “but it’s only got the one bed.” Shrugging apologetically, she added, “Last night was busy.”   
  
There had been no other cars in the lot out front; the inn was almost empty. _Really?_ John thought incredulously. _I thought this kind of thing only happened in bad romance novels._ At the girl’s sly expression – she was trying to cover it with innocent eagerness to please, but it wasn’t working – John sighed and relented. _She probably thinks that she’s being helpful and subtle, but I could really care less right now. I’m tired, Sherlock doesn’t sleep anyway, and it probably costs less for a room with one bed than with two._ “It’ll have to be good enough,” he acquiesced, pulling his wallet out. “How much?”   
  
The price was more than reasonable, and John wondered if she was lowering the cost because she felt guilty about duping them. Either way, he paid and collected the key to the room without further incident. _What if Sherlock had been human, though?_ He glanced wistfully at the alien as they walked down the hall and allowed himself a few seconds of fantasy.   
  
_There’d be the awkward fumbling as we got prepared for bed, both of us trying not to think about the close quarters we’d share. We’d climb in, tense and as far apart as possible, but eventually we’d relax and lie closer together. In the morning, we’d wake up lying practically on top of one another, and it would be horribly embarrassing but at the same time so wonderfully right. It wouldn’t be like curling up with Sherlock as he is; he’s always aware of what’s going on, and it’s got no romantic association for him at all._ John sighed and forced the scenario from his mind. _But, that’ll never happen. He’s an alien, and it does me no good to imagine otherwise. Besides, even as a human I’m sure that he’d have noticed the vacancies._   
  
As if to prove him right, as soon as they were out of the girl’s hearing range Sherlock said, “John, almost all of the rooms here are vacant. There were no other vehicles in the lot where you parked, and I heard the other rooms’ keys when she searched for yours.”   
  
John rolled his eyes and located the correct room as he let the dream fade into impossibility. “Yes, Sherlock. I’d noticed. I know you like to think that the human race is filled with idiots, but I’m not a complete waste of space.” He shoved the door open and gazed at the inviting bed with a nearly euphoric sense of anticipation. _I probably have hearts in my eyes,_ he thought with amusement.   
  
“You’re not an idiot,” Sherlock commented, nudging John further into the room and shutting the door behind them. “You’re just a little slow to catch on, sometimes. It’s better than never catching on at all, like most of the others.” He glanced at him curiously. “Why did you take the room, if you knew that she was lying?”

Raising an eyebrow at the differentiation of human intelligence and John’s intelligence, John stripped off his outerwear and collapsed onto the bed. He groaned in appreciation at the soft mattress. _Definitely felt bad for duping us,_ he thought of the girl at the counter. _This is worth far more than what I paid._ “Because it didn’t matter. She thought that we were a couple with unresolved sexual tension; sharing a bed would supposedly get us to realize our ‘feelings’ for each other.” _I wish. Dammit, no!_ John sighed and gave up, relaxing into the bed. _God, I’m tired._ “I don’t think I can move to get under the covers,” he admitted, eyes already sliding shut.   
  
Sherlock huffed from beside the bed and shifted him around until he was under the blankets. John tried to mumble his gratitude, but he suspected it got lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth. As he drifted off to sleep, covers tucked in around him and alien bracelet wrapped around his wrist, he was sure that he felt Sherlock brush his fingers through his hair. “Sleep well,” he heard before dropping into darkness.   


* * *

John slept like the dead, but six hours later found them back on the road all too soon. Considering the frequency with which one or the other alien would ask for information on an impressive-looking structure they passed during the trip, John rather wished that he had a guidebook in the car. “I’m really not familiar with the area, but I think that was an old castle,” he said of the latest building they’d spotted in the distance. To John’s eyes, it looked like nothing more than a dark blob almost on the horizon, but Sherlock and Mycroft were comparing observations of the mortar work.   
  
“I’ll have to research Scottish landmarks and architecture when we return,” Sherlock commented. “I might be able to identify them then.”   
  
Apparently useless in the conversation at hand, John shrugged and changed the topic. “I’m getting hungry,” he announced. “You don’t mind if we stop somewhere for a quick lunch, do you?”   
  
“Not at all,” Sherlock replied. Mycroft nodded in agreement.   
  
“Great.” A few kilometres later, John pulled off and found a chipper. He ordered, collected his food, and was back in the car within fifteen minutes. Sherlock examined the fish strips curiously, watching as John brought one to his mouth.   
  
“What is it?” John asked after a few similarly-scrutinized bites.   
  
To John’s bemusement, Sherlock blinked and lost a bit of definition. “Nothing,” he replied, turning his attention back out the window. John glanced at him but decided to let it go. _Odd, though,_ he thought, filing the incident away to consider later.

* * *

They had to stop once more, later in the evening, to get John a quick dinner. “We’re almost home, at least,” John said happily when they’d returned to the car, fighting the fatigue of driving for two days. “A few more hours left, and then I can go to sleep.”   
  
“It’ll be dark by the time we arrive in London,” Mycroft commented. “Will you be able to stay alert that long?”   
  
John shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m going to be pretty useless for several hours when I finally go to sleep.”   
  
“We’ll wait for you to wake up to call the authorities, then,” Mycroft conceded. “We do need to tell them where we are and why we chose to leave, even if it was rather obvious.”   
  
“Still trying to build trust between them and you?” John asked, resigned and angry at their capture all at once.   
  
Mycroft shrugged. “We’re not giving up on your planet; we knew this would not be easy. This just means that we need a different strategy. Regardless of how we proceed from here, we need cooperation and communication.”

_Fair enough._ Rolling his shoulders to ease some of the tension, he returned his attention to the road. A few seconds later, Sherlock brushed his hand over John’s arm. It remained at his shoulder, rolling against the sore muscles, and John sent him a grateful smile before turning his attention back to the road.   


* * *

It was nearly eleven at night when they abandoned the car on the outskirts of London with an anonymous tip to the police and grabbed a cab back to the flat; John was barely awake when Sherlock finally guided him through the front door and up the stairs. Mycroft paid the driver and followed them in. All of John’s exhaustion fled rather quickly when a pair of voices filtered through the walls into the stairwell. _Damn it,_ he despaired. _I thought I’d get at least one good night’s sleep before MI5 dropped in on us._ Sherlock tightened his grip on him before pushing the door open.   
  
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Mycroft’s assistant said. She was drinking tea with Mrs. Hudson in their sitting room. “We wondered if you’d come back here.”   
  
“Of course,” Sherlock replied, glancing between the two women. “We’re not trying to avoid detection; we just wanted to go home.”   
  
“Mrs. Hudson?” John greeted. “What are you doing here?”   
  
“Miss Anthea was telling me all about our Sherlock and his brother,” she said, staring at the brothers over her cup.   
  
“Really.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Anthea. _That explains what Anthea is doing here, then._ She returned the expression and sipped from her tea.   
  
“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Sherlock, you could have told me that you weren’t from here.” John’s eyebrows rose, and he wondered what story Anthea had fed her.   
  
“Anthea, may we speak outside for a moment?” Mycroft requested, tilting his head towards the door.   
  
She stared at him incredulously. “You’re joking, right? I’m not going to go talk to an alien – one who just escaped from a secure facility, for that matter – in private. I’m not stupid.”   
  
“Anthea, I realize your trust in me has been shaken, but please hear me out,” Mycroft requested in his ubiquitously calm voice.   
  
Meanwhile, John winced at the casual mention of extraterrestrial life and watched Mrs. Hudson, ready to support her and calm her down if she fell into hysterics. To his surprise, she merely tutted and took another sip of tea. _Why is she not reacting? Did she not catch it, somehow? Or, did Anthea actually tell her the truth?_ “Er. Mrs. Hudson? Perhaps you’d like to go back downstairs for the night,” he suggested. _Either way, it’d probably be a good idea to get her out of here._   
  
“Oh, I don’t think so, dear. Anthea’s told me all about the trouble you three have been stirring up; I’m not going to leave her to deal with your antics alone, now am I?” She smiled. “Besides, visitors from another planet are much more interesting than the telly!”   
  
_Okay, so Anthea told her the truth._ John shared a bemused glance with Sherlock. _And, for some reason she’s not having a fit about it._   
  
“I’ve been sent in by the prime minister to take charge of the situation. Mrs. Hudson has been debriefed on everything pertinent,” Anthea informed them. “Her assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated.” John could almost hear the silent ‘unlike yours’ at the end.   
  
“Don’t fret, poppets; she swore me to secrecy first,” Mrs. Hudson reassured them. John, feeling rather overwhelmed, crossed the room to collapse into his armchair. “Are you alright, John?”   
  
“Peachy,” he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. Sherlock leaned against the side of the chair and draped an arm over John’s shoulders, rubbing his upper arm comfortingly.   
  
Mycroft apparently accepted that Mrs. Hudson was going to stick around, and he struck up negotiations with Anthea. He advocated that they had cooperated with the government’s demands beyond reasonable expectations, and that they were just as capable of submitting to tests and meeting with the prime minister in London as they were in Eynhallow. “In fact, keeping us in London is more convenient for the prime minister than forcing him to travel to the tip of Scotland to speak with us in person,” he added.

Clearly suspicious of their motives despite admitting Mycroft’s point, Anthea agreed but with several stipulations of her own. “The three of you will remain under house arrest unless escorted by our agents. You will keep the humanoid shapes that you have now and will not impersonate anyone else. You will not, under any circumstances, harm anyone.” John winced slightly at the last, but Anthea wasn’t watching him. “Agreed?”   
  
“Now, wait a minute,” John interjected. _“House arrest?_ We just left Eynhallow because they cut us off from everyone else; what’s the difference here? I’m a British citizen; I have rights!”   
  
“You’ll retain use of your phone, internet and television,” Anthea explained, “though the first two will be monitored.”   
  
John was still incredulous, but Sherlock pressed against his shoulder. “It’s okay, John,” he murmured. “We knew that they would want us contained in some way or another. At least here we’re home.”   
  
“That doesn’t make it right,” John grumbled, watching Sherlock and Mycroft carry on a quick touch-conversation. _Not that I really mind staying home with Sherlock all day, but we should have the option of going out if we want to!_   
  
“Agreed,” Mycroft confirmed. John turned his face away and swallowed his frustration; Sherlock squeezed him reassuringly for a second.   
  
“Excellent,” Anthea said, relaxing into her chair for the first time since they’d arrived. She pulled out her Blackberry and began texting. “I’m calling in the guards now; if we find tomorrow that you’ve pulled an escape like in Eynhallow, we will consider it a hostile act and respond accordingly. Is that clear?”   
  
“Crystal.” John’s bitterness at his country’s betrayal was clear in his response.   
  
Anthea pocketed the mobile and finished her tea, thanking Mrs. Hudson sweetly. “You’ve got my number,” she reminded the elderly woman. “Call me if you need anything.” As she walked out the door, she called over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in the morning to work out the specifics of our agreement.”   
  
Silence reigned in the flat for several seconds after the door closed. Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson and said her name with a hint of confusion. Mrs. Hudson smiled at him and bustled about, picking up the remains of her and Anthea’s tea. “You needn’t worry, boys: I know how to keep a secret.” She winked at them and headed off for the stairs. “I’ll just be going to bed now, loves. Do try to get some sleep tonight; you must be knackered!”   
  
John stared after her in disbelief – _How can she possibly be this calm?_ – before deciding that he was just too exhausted to deal with it right then. “Well, I’m off, too,” he announced, shoving himself out of the armchair and tottering up the stairs to his bedroom. One of Sherlock’s tendrils followed him and, as ever, cradled John’s hand when he laid down for sleep.   


* * *

Morning came far too soon, and it brought Anthea again. John awoke to knocking on the door with a haze of deja-vu. _Allison; Anthea: Why do I get the feeling that I’ve been here before? At least the surroundings are more comfortable this time around._ He stretched and got dressed, listening to Mycroft and Sherlock talking with Anthea downstairs. She seemed content to ignore him for the moment; John passed through to the kitchen to make himself breakfast. He was greeted by a horrible stench from the fridge.   
  
John hadn’t been very conscious of the kitchen’s upkeep in the first place, and a week away hadn’t done the already out-of-date fruits and vegetables any good. Shrugging, he made himself tea without cream and toast before rejoining the three others in the sitting room. Sherlock glanced up from watching Anthea and Mycroft face off and moved to his side. “She wants us to quit our jobs,” he explained unhappily. “No analyses for Mycroft, and no crime-solving for me.” He rippled, and John leaned against him comfortingly. _This is wrong,_ he thought sadly. _They’re trying to help us, and we’re just making it harder on them._   
  
“Dr. Watson,” Anthea said suddenly, moving away from Mycroft. “May I speak to you in private?”

“Sure,” John agreed bitingly. _Do I have a choice?_ He followed her out of the flat, tea in one hand and toast in the other. She led him out of the building entirely and leaned against the wall, closing the door behind him. Feeling a bit awkward standing on the pavement with his breakfast, John shifted his weight and asked, “What did you want to talk about?” _There aren’t any suspicious people springing to abduct me – or, at least I don’t see any – so I assume this is at least a friendly interrogation._  
  
“You’ve lived with Sherlock Holmes for just under a year,” she accused. John made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hudson if she’d be willing to let them renew their contract, all things considered.  
  
“You’ve worked with Mycroft Holmes for longer than that, I’d wager,” he returned.  
  
Anthea grimaced at him. “I was his secretary, on paper, and his handler unofficially. I ensured that the information that we gave him was kept secure and confidential.” She tilted her head towards him and crossed her arms. “You were a security risk while you stayed with him. We ran a complete background check, and you came out clean; we still monitored you carefully.”  
  
“Can’t have government secrets leaked to terrorists,” John agreed snidely, sipping his tea. “I repeat: What did you want to talk about?”  
  
“You displayed strong integrity when placed in that position.” She turned her face away and looked into the middle distance. “What can you tell us about the aliens from your experience with them? We don’t even know what their species is called.”  
  
“You’re joking, right? After all this, why should I cooperate with you?”  
  
Grimacing lightly, Anthea replied, “I know this all seems very unfair, but try to understand where we’re coming from. We’re so far from prepared for this situation that we’re floundering, trying to keep up. Obviously, our first attempt was a miserable failure fueled by panicked reactions; we’re trying to make it work this time, but it’s clear that we need more information to work with.”  
  
“Why couldn’t you have just asked in the first place?” There was the crux of the problem: Rather than being upfront with the aliens and admitting that they were lost, the government officials had just whisked them away and taken away their freedoms and rights. “They were trying to cooperate with you, and you screwed us all over.”  
  
“Yes,” she agreed levelly. “We did. And, now we’re trying to fix it. Will you help us?”  
  
John could almost see Mycroft standing beside him, urging him to extend a peace offering and make the first move for total cooperation. _Damn it._ He sighed in defeat. _Fine, but I’m doing it for you and Sherlock, not for Anthea._ “As far as I know, there isn’t a name for their species,” John said. “Their native language isn’t vocal; they’re naturally telepathic.” At Anthea’s raised eyebrow, he shook his head. “We’re not compatible in that way, for whatever reason. As for what to call them, neither has expressed distaste at the terms ‘alien’ or ‘extraterrestrial.’”  
  
“Tell me more about their telepathy,” Anthea requested. John explained the touch aspect of their culture as best he could, thinking all the while, _Don’t make me regret telling you their weakness._ Sherlock and Mycroft would almost certainly be able to regroup despite any efforts of separation – they could go months without contact, if necessary – but he’d rather not have to deal with the situation at all.  
  
After a few anecdotes of his time with Sherlock and Mycroft, Anthea asked him to relate the events leading up to the explosion at the pool. John winced and gave her a slightly edited recounting of the bombings, their investigation and the scene that night. “Moriarty just collapsed,” he demurred. “We still don’t know what happened; we think maybe the other man shot him. Sherlock and I took a cab back to the flat, which is where Mycroft met up with us later.”  
  
“You called Mycroft after you returned, then,” she verified.  
  
“Not exactly,” John said, taking another sip of tea to cover his nerves. _I have to sell this._ “He’s got access to the CCTV network, as I’m sure you know; he saw the explosion and tracked us back to our flat, where he came to meet us.”

“Hm.” She wasn’t buying it. _Damn it._ “John, I need to ask a difficult question of you. It’s clear that you’re loyal to your country – don’t think that I’m doubting that – but also that you’re loyal to the aliens. Where does your first loyalty lie?”  
  
The correct answer to that question was, of course, England; if he were being honest, however, it would be Sherlock. “My faith in England has taken a bit of a beating this last week,” he hedged. “Right now, I’m more likely to help Sherlock or Mycroft than you. But,” he added, seeing Anthea’s brows draw together, “if I were to find reason to believe that Sherlock or Mycroft intend to bring harm on our country, I would certainly act to stop them.” _That’s not very likely to happen, though._  
  
“I see,” Anthea said flatly. “You knew Sherlock in Afghanistan, correct?”  
  
 _She must have talked to Allison._ “Yes.” Seeing where she was going with that, he continued, “I chose to keep him secret from my commanding officer first because I worried that there would be a diplomatic misunderstanding – Sherlock didn’t know English then – and later because he’d asked me not to.” It sounded a lot worse when he stated it like that; he shrugged uncomfortably. “At that point he’d had plenty of opportunities to cause destruction, but he hadn’t taken them. I’d already hidden him for that long; it felt like it would be easier to just keep going along with it.” _This is really not reflecting well on me._ John finished off his toast and cupped his tea with both hands, looking away from Anthea. “It didn’t seem at the time that I was choosing one over the other, Sherlock over England. It still doesn’t.”  
  
To his surprise, she merely asked what he’d been like when they’d first met: How had he changed in the two years since? John tried to express the wonder of learning the alien’s cues and behaviours, combined with the frustrations that inevitably came up when one or the other got something wrong. She nodded neutrally, giving no indication of the impression his words made on her, and occasionally offered prompts when he faltered in his speech. When he’d run out of sentences and she didn’t question him again, he took a sip of tea for his parched mouth. It was cold.  
  
“Thank you for your insight,” Anthea said after several moments of increasingly awkward silence. She shook her head and actually smiled at him, making John raise his eyebrows in surprise. “You’ve helped me understand something that I couldn’t puzzle out.”  
  
“What is that?” John asked, curious.  
  
“Why you’re so devoted to them. James Flahave was wrong; you’re not being controlled.”  
  
“I’d gathered that, thanks,” he replied dryly. Rather than elaborate on what she thought the reason was, Anthea nodded and gestured for him to lead the way back up the stairs to the flat. John hesitated. “They really are here to help us,” he assured her, desperately trying to make her believe him. “They’re pacifists; they just want us to stop killing ourselves.”  
  
Anthea stared at him, examining his expression, before her eyes softened. “I know that you believe that,” she said, “and you’re probably the one to know, at this point. But, you understand when I say that we have to be cautious about placing the trust of our government in the hands of an alien.”  
  
“You did it before and nothing bad came of that,” John grumbled, thinking of Mycroft’s job as an analyst.  
  
“Under false pretences,” Anthea agreed. “It’s different, now. He’s lied to us once, no matter how understandably; we have to be certain that he won’t betray us in the future.” She must have seen John’s despair because she added, “We’ll make more of an effort to meet them halfway, this time.”

Figuring that it was the best he’d get, John nodded and headed back inside the building. He saw Anthea glance around once before following.

* * *

The sight that greeted them in the flat was not at all what John had expected; based on the way Anthea froze beside him when she stepped through the doorway, she hadn’t anticipated it either. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table with Mycroft hovering in the kitchen. Both aliens looked slightly bemused, but Mrs. Hudson had a cup of tea in her hands and a smile on her face as she chattered at Sherlock.   
  
“Crashed? Oh, you poor dear. I hope you weren’t hurt.”   
  
With a pleading glance at John, Sherlock replied, “Not permanently, no; the electrical discharge on impact knocked me out for several minutes, though.”   
  
“Electricity knocks you unconscious? I’ll make sure to cover the outlets, then. We don’t want you passing out on us, do we?”   
  
While Sherlock unsuccessfully tried to convince her that the electrical power found in outlets wasn’t nearly enough to do any damage to him, Anthea slipped past John to stand near Mycroft.   
“You’re going to want to go back to your house eventually, correct?” she murmured under the other conversation.   
  
Mycroft didn’t turn his face towards John, but he could still feel weight of the alien’s stare. “Correct.”   
  
“House arrest with plainclothes agents and security cameras at all times. You’ll be put on probation as far as your work goes, and Sherlock will be prohibited from detective work – both private and in conjunction with the Met – until further notice. Dr. Watson may return to work if he wishes, but he will be under strict surveillance. Alternatively, he may choose to stay under house arrest with the rest of you; we will extend his time off, if necessary. All three of you will attend mandatory examinations at a local hospital – we haven’t put together a medical team, yet – which you will be escorted to and from. Mrs. Hudson, after receiving some further training and security clearance, will be assigned as Sherlock’s handler with assistance from Dr. Watson.” – _Really? Mrs. Hudson is Sherlock’s handler?_ John glanced incredulously at Anthea before turning back to Sherlock’s conversation. _They must not be very worried about him going rogue._ – “I will be yours. Due to your physiologies, we will of course allow you and Sherlock to meet whenever either of you request. Acceptable?”   
  
Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson continued talking while Mycroft considered. “Acceptable,” he decided, “assuming that the other two agree, as well.”   
  
Anthea nodded, but Mrs. Hudson’s sudden exclamation of surprise drew her attention. “Your skin is so different!” their landlady said. She had one of Sherlock’s hands between both her own and was turning and examining the strange texture. “Are all of you like this?”   
  
“They are,” John confirmed, taking a step forward. “It’s a bit strange to get used to.”   
  
“I’m sure,” Mrs. Hudson mumbled, picking up Sherlock’s other hand.   
  
“May I?” John heard Anthea ask behind him. He turned to see her holding a hand out to Mycroft; he nodded and extended his own. Anthea’s expression changed into muted awe when she felt the alien skin, and John wondered if she hadn’t really internalized that she was interacting with life forms from another planet. _It’s a humbling experience,_ he remembered, feeling a smile drift onto his face. _At least they didn’t have to go through the panicked ‘Don’t eat me! I’m a government analyst!’ part beforehand._   
  
After a few seconds, Anthea seemed to realize what she was doing; she blushed lightly and dropped her hand to her side, rubbing her fingers together almost unconsciously. “I need to get to work,” she said, snapping back into business. “People need to be coordinated, after all. Mycroft, explain the stipulations of our agreement to Sherlock and Dr. Watson; call me when they’ve agreed or disagreed.” Mycroft subtly slipped a tendril over to Sherlock, almost certainly sharing the demands Anthea had given. “Your house still needs to be set up for surveillance, but it shouldn’t take much longer than it does to come to an agreement here. I’ll take you back to your house at that point, if you’d like, or you can stay.”

“I agree,” Sherlock stated, shrugging at Anthea’s surprised expression. “Mycroft already told me. I’m not really thrilled about sitting around and doing nothing about the criminals on the streets,” he admitted, rippling gently, “but peace is our priority. If I have to stop solving crimes to get you to trust us, so be it.” Anthea grimaced at the slight censure but nodded anyway.  
  
“I agree,” John added, completing the treaty. Anthea nodded to him and clapped her hands together.  
  
“Well, then,” she said. “In that case I’ll get to work on making arrangements. Mycroft, I’ll call you when your house is ready for you; you can return at any time after that.” Mycroft nodded his agreement, and Anthea turned to Mrs. Hudson. “I’ll be in touch,” she promised. “Call me if you need anything.”  
  
“Don’t worry about me, dearie,” Mrs. Hudson denied. “We’ll be just fine here.”  
  
Anthea took her leave, but Mrs. Hudson stayed with them for several more hours to hear stories of the aliens’ time on Earth. She seemed utterly enthralled; John thought that if the rest of humanity would just react like Mrs. Hudson, they’d have no problems. “How did you meet them?” she asked John.  
  
“I found him at the crash site,” John replied, censoring out the fact that Sherlock had ‘eaten’ him and that he’d shot the alien in return. “He followed me back to the base. Mycroft came later.”  
  
She nodded and asked him about the aliens’ tastes in tea, which led to Sherlock awkwardly explaining that he’d not really drunk any of the tea that she’d given him. John was half-afraid that she was about to burst into tears at the admission, and he quickly told her that the aliens lived off of sunlight.  
  
“So you’re a plant?” Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock, eyes thankfully dry. It all went downhill from there.  


* * *

Mrs. Hudson left them alone after a couple of hours, curiosity satisfied for the moment. John relaxed into the sofa, Sherlock following him after a few minutes and curling up beside him, and flipped on the telly, wondering what he’d missed while he was away. After jumping through several channels over the course of an hour and finding nothing about aliens, John settled into one channel to watch the top stories. _Apparently, a week is long enough for the next big scandal to eclipse aliens among us._ The reporter described a string of deaths in China – apparently the twelfth dead politician in the last five days had turned up that morning – before turning to the latest sports news.   
  
Mycroft watched the report on the dead Chinese and abruptly rippled. “There’s not enough information,” he grumbled, pulling out his mobile. “I need to know more.” He dialed and stepped out of the room to make his call, John and Sherlock watching him go in bemusement.   
  
Shaking his head, John turned to Sherlock. “Are you really okay with all of this? The house arrest, all the limitations?” he asked.   
  
Sherlock turned his head into John’s shoulder and sighed. “I’m not very happy about it, but I’m accepting it as a necessary loss. It’s frustrating, being forced to choose between removing the criminal element and reaching the good graces of your government, but I’ll admit Mycroft’s point here: If we don’t get their approval, they could easily block me from crime scenes, and we’d have nothing.” He sighed, shuddering against John’s side, and John wrapped an arm over him. “Bringing peace to your planet really is our main priority; everything else is just background.”   
  
_Ouch,_ John thought, feeling his heart clench. _Everything else – I’m just background to them, too?_   
  
His distress must have come through in his body language because Sherlock looked at him and rolled his eyes. “You’re not background,” he added. “You’re a separate category entirely. Stop panicking.” Sherlock looked over at the door where Mycroft had exited, expression softening in worry. “Mycroft’s doing enough of that for all of us.”

Relaxing at the reassurance, John wondered who Mycroft was calling, anyway. That led him to thinking about calls in general. “Oh!” he gasped, realizing that he’d left his own phone in the pocket of his trousers from the day before. He bounced from the sofa, startling Sherlock, and headed upstairs to retrieve it. _I had it turned off, since it was useless in Eynhallow,_ he remembered. _Gabe’s probably called me since then; he must be frantic!_ The thirteen voicemails and twenty-eight texts he found when he powered up the mobile seemed to confirm that. John listened to the increasingly anxious messages before calling Gabe.   
  
_“John?!”_ Gabe answered breathlessly. “Where the hell have you been, mate? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all week – we thought you’d been killed or something!”   
  
Wincing, John replied, “I’m really, really sorry. We basically got abducted by the government; there wasn’t any reception out there. Sherlock smuggled me out, and we just got back last night.”   
  
“Bloody hell,” Gabe muttered almost reverently. “Seriously? Are you alright?” Before John could respond, he continued, “If you’re on the run, what are you doing talking to me?”   
  
“We’re not on the run; we’re back in Baker Street. It’s okay. The government knows we’re here, and they’re letting us stay. Sherlock and Mycroft just have to stay in their houses.” That last bit still stung quite a bit. “I’m permitted to go back to work, but I’m under surveillance.”   
  
John heard an impressed whistle. “You lot don’t do things by halves, do you? Sally and Alan have been worried about you, by the way.”   
  
“I saw their messages,” John agreed. Only half of the texts and calls had been from Gabe: The rest were split almost evenly between Sally and Alan. “I’ll call them later.”   
  
“Good. By the way, I talked to the Commissioner, and I’m pretty certain he’s been briefed by the prime minister’s office, too. He wants to meet you and Sherlock, of course, but he’s already working on damage control. We had to let a few more people on the force into the know, but as far as the media’s concerned, it was a well-executed – if absurd – terrorist attack.”   
  
“Great; thanks, Gabe,” John said, relieved that the lack of coverage on the telly wasn’t just a fluke.   
  
“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned. “We can’t stop speculation on the internet, and I’m a little wary about some of the people who know, now.”   
  
A knock sounded on the door downstairs, and John glanced at the floor curiously. “I’m going to have to let you go,” he told Gabe. “Someone’s at the door. I’ll talk to you later, though.” He hung up and made his way to the sitting room; to his surprise, Anthea was back.   
  
“We can’t give you that information,” she was telling Mycroft, who rippled furiously.   
  
“I could help,” he argued. “I just need more data; I can’t correlate nothing!”   
  
“Sorry, but it’s not going to happen. Are you coming or not?”   
  
“You’re leaving?” John guessed of Mycroft. _That was abrupt. Then again, he’s told me that being around me is painful for him._ He suppressed the guilty frustration that came with that memory.   
  
“Yes,” Mycroft replied shortly before renewing his assault on Anthea. “Twelve Chinese politicians die, and no one can find the connection – you _need_ me.”   
  
“That’s my line,” Sherlock muttered to John, moving to stand beside him. He pressed their shoulders together. “How was Lestrade?”   
  
“How did you –? Never mind. He was worried about us, but he says that everything’s under control as far as the video. Is Mycroft on about that news story?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
While they watched, Anthea rolled her eyes in frustration and turned sharply to leave. “If you’re coming with me, start moving. Otherwise, you’re here until tomorrow – I can’t keep making trips back here all day.”   
  
Mycroft rippled once more before subsiding, and John wondered vaguely whether Anthea had figured out that body language yet. “Certainly,” the alien replied smoothly, turning to John and Sherlock. “I’m off, then; take care, Sherlock. John.” With a short nod and a last clasp of hands with his brother, Mycroft turned and followed Anthea out the door.

The flat was filled with silence for several seconds before Sherlock devolved into a puddle and carried John to the sofa. John settled in, adjusting to the abrupt motion, and wrapped an arm around the alien when he curled over John’s chest. “Hey,” he soothed, seeing the way Sherlock kept sliding between light grey and white. _He’s scared and trying to ignore it._ “It’ll be alright,” he promised. “Things are already better than I thought they’d be.” _I was afraid you’d be kidnapped and tortured in a government facility. Granted, that pretty much happened, but at least now we’re back home._   
  
Sherlock burrowed into John’s chest, half-formed tentacles writhing and wrapping around John’s limbs. John relaxed in Sherlock’s grip and tried to project all the warmth and comfort he could, wishing that the alien could actually feel it. Slowly, Sherlock’s movements slowed and smoothed until he finally calmed and melted against John. “It’ll be alright,” John repeated. _We’ve got each other, if nothing else._ He rubbed his hand over Sherlock’s back and tried to pretend that the last two weeks hadn’t happened.   
  
To his surprise, it worked for several hours. They curled together on the sofa until John got hungry; even then, Sherlock accompanied him to the kitchen. The stench from the fridge was enough to shatter the illusion for a moment, but Sherlock – who had no sense of smell – cleaned it out while John made himself beans from the can. They retired back to the sitting room, where John popped in an old Bond movie and Sherlock stole John’s laptop again to surf some university’s research articles over John’s lap.   
  
It wasn’t meant to last, unfortunately. An hour later, Mrs. Hudson burst through the door, looking worried. “We have a problem,” she announced, wringing her hands. “There’s been a leak in the Met. Someone revealed you to the press – again.”   
  
_Why can’t we just get a break?!_ “Are we playing it off as a joke?” John asked, turning off the movie and switching over to a news station.   
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock blur and flicker to white before regaining control. “John,” he said, turning the laptop so that John could see the screen. “Look.”   
  
It was a webpage with their personal information and the header, “Humans Only.” John glanced over it, seeing that it listed their full names and home address before he closed his eyes and shut the laptop. “Even if we can cover it up, we’re going to be under suspicion,” he muttered, trying to hold off his frustration and the sinking sensation in his belly. _We had half an afternoon of peace, and now it’s gone._ Sherlock brushed his hand against John’s arm, and John sighed. “We need to talk to Mycroft and Anthea.”   
  
“They know,” Mrs. Hudson said, stepping further into the room. “Anthea’s the one who called me. She wants us to leave and go to a safe house.”   
  
John ground his teeth in frustration but didn’t respond; he turned his attention to the news playing on the telly. A reporter was saying, “A reliable source within the Metropolitan Police Force revealed several minutes ago that the video footage found on BBC’s website last week was, in fact, live unedited footage of real events. He confirmed the identities of those involved: James Flahave, who was found dead at the scene, John Watson, formerly of the Royal Army Medical Corps, and Sherlock Holmes, private consultant to the Met.”   
  
_They know exactly who we are,_ John thought. _We’re going to have to go into hiding – we’ll never be able to show ourselves in public again. How long will it take for someone to realize that Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother? He’ll be destroyed, too._ “If we hide, we’ll never be able to come back,” he muttered to himself. Sherlock glanced at him.   
  
“Boys, the agents outside are going to escort us to the safe house. You need to pack up your things quickly,” Mrs. Hudson urged, already half-way out the door back to her flat. “We need to leave soon.”   
  
John sighed, planning what to bring, but Sherlock didn’t move. “What if we didn’t leave?” the alien asked softly. “What if we just come clean?”

“Sherlock, I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” John replied. “Not everyone is as accepting as Mrs. Hudson and me – it’d be Eynhallow on a world-wide scale.” _I am so not ready to deal with a repeat of Zimmerman._ And, okay, he was a little resentful that he’d have to share Sherlock with the rest of the world. He held no illusions that they’d have anything remotely resembling privacy if they went public.  
  
“So instead we just disappear, right when media attention focuses on us?” Sherlock countered, pulling out his phone. “It’s as good as admitting it, anyway.” While John considered, Sherlock called Mycroft. “I think we should get it over with and reveal ourselves,” he told his brother.  
  
 _We could rely on some disbelief,_ John thought. _It’s not like everyone will believe that they’re aliens. He’s right, though: Just running away right now will definitely raise suspicions._ Sherlock responded to something that Mycroft said, “It’s practically blown already! I’ve been accused of being an extraterrestrial twice in a week, and the second was by an officer in the Met. That’s going to draw attention – how long do you think it will take before they start investigating and realize that no one in the town where we supposedly grew up knows us?”  
  
There was another pause while Mycroft spoke. “Police officers aren’t the only people that can run investigations, Mycroft. The evidence is just going to keep piling up until there’s no room for doubt. We need to head this off.”  
  
John’s phone started ringing, and he wormed his hand under Sherlock’s bulk to answer. It was Anthea. “Dr. Watson, I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing, talking to Mycroft, but you need to get Sherlock moving and out of there _right now._ We don’t have time for indecision; the agents on your street are waiting for you. Get out.”  
  
As if to punctuate her words, Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to tap on the door. “Boys? Are you ready?”  
  
“Just a moment, Mrs. Hudson!” John called to her. “Listen, Anthea, I think he’s got a decent idea.” Sherlock was discussing repercussions of coming out sooner rather than later. “No matter what we do, it’s going to draw suspicion. Maybe admitting everything now is the best damage control they’ll get.”  
  
“We can’t just make a decision of that importance without considering all factors! Watson, get moving _now._ We’ll figure out how to deal with this when we’ve got you at the safe house.”  
  
The street outside was getting louder with the occasional shout, and Sherlock moved off of John to let him go to the window. He could see a few people arguing with a several others. _Those must be the agents,_ he thought, _and the others are civilians._ “Sherlock,” he called, turning the phone away from his mouth. “We’re running out of time.”  
  
“Boys?” Mrs. Hudson opened the door and stepped in again. When she saw that they hadn’t prepared at all, her voice hardened. “What are you two doing?”  
  
“Watson, get him out! We’re seeing increased activity on CCTV heading in your direction!”  
  
“Sherlock?” John stood by the window, waiting to see what the aliens decided to do. _It’s their choice,_ he reasoned. _It’s their secret, not mine or Anthea’s._  
  
“Alright.” Sherlock snapped the phone shut and turned towards the humans. “We’re staying here,” he announced.  
  
 _“What?!”_ both Mrs. Hudson and Anthea said. On the phone, a harried-sounding Anthea continued, “Mycroft, we can’t go public with this! There are so many factors to take into account, not to mention the danger it puts all of you in.”  
  
“It might make things harder for the moment,” Sherlock said, “but we need humanity to trust us if we’re going to have any hope for success. Continuing to lie when it’s clear that we’ve got something to hide will only hinder us at this point. We’ll confirm the leak.”  
  
John could hear bits of Anthea’s conversation with Mycroft over the phone, and she was decidedly unhappy with their course of action. “You can’t do this!” she finally cried.  
  
“We can,” he heard Mycroft say. “Or, were you planning to hold one of your own citizens hostage – again – to force our hand?”

Sherlock had his own hands full with Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock, dear, I’m not sure that you’re anticipating the level of protest this is going to bring.”   
  
“On the contrary,” Sherlock replied, moving past John to stand by the window. “I understand perfectly.” He pushed aside the curtains. The mob had grown in the few minutes John had looked away, and it had overwhelmed the agents on the street; they’d retreated to merely guarding the front door. Some people had even brought signs.   
  
“Bloody hell,” he heard Mrs. Hudson whisper. “We’re never going to make it out through that.”   
  
Over the phone, Mycroft’s biting response to Anthea had disarmed her. “Trust us,” he pled, close enough to the phone for John to hear. “We can do this. Just trust us and help us.”   
  
After several seconds of silence, Anthea agreed. “Dr. Watson?” she asked, apparently remembering the phone. “Are you still there?”   
  
“We’re still here,” he confirmed, glancing over at Sherlock. The alien nudged him gently in response. “We’re staying here, too.”   
  
“Tell Mrs. Hudson to lock down the building. I’ll adjust the orders for the agents out front to a protection detail. The police should arrive soon to supplement your defense. John, be careful.”   
  
“We will,” he replied, hanging up the phone. He passed on the instructions to Mrs. Hudson, who nodded and turned to get to work. John pocketed his phone, feeling lightheaded with the situational whiplash of the last several minutes, and turned to peer down at the street again.   
  
_I was so relieved a few hours ago that we’d managed to limit the scope of damage,_ John thought, watching the scene. _But here we are, back at square one. Worse: They know who we are, and they believe it this time._ Stomach sitting heavily, he stared out the window at the crowd and read the signs.   
  
_“Planet Earth is Ours!”  
  
“No Aliens Allowed!”  
  
“Teach Us Peace!”  
  
“Take Me to Your Leader!”  
  
“Phone Home and Go Home!”_   
  
Sherlock moved beside him and rested an arm over John’s shoulders. “It’ll be alright,” he echoed back to him, tugging John against his side. “Our plan will work. Your species may have a tendency for destructive cruelty, but you also have the capacity for great compassion. It’ll be fine.”   
  
“God, I hope so,” John replied, grabbing Sherlock’s other hand in his own and holding on for dear life.


	11. District 221B

_Click._   
  
“Things are heating up here on Baker Street, though it’s a far cry from the masses we had here this morning: Dozens of protestors left this address for home earlier today to watch the live broadcast of the prime minister’s address, due to begin in a few minutes. It's shaping up to be quite the event; resident Lottie Turner says that she's very interested in what he has to say. Mrs. Turner?"   
  
"Well, yes; of course I'm interested. I can barely get to my bloody front door for all the people! I don't know what's convinced them that we've got aliens living here – aliens, of all things! – but I personally can't wait for them to get out of my hair." She shook her head, hair almost brushing the reporter's microphone. "Aliens, honestly. What kind of crockery is that? I think I would have noticed if I was living next door to a couple of little green men."   
  
Were the situation lighter, John suspected that Sherlock would have obligingly shifted size and colour beside him. As it was, they both stared at the screen in tense anticipation while the reporter continued talking to their neighbour.   
  
“Many of the protestors here seem to disagree with you on that, and you have to admit that the guards stationed at 221 Baker Street are a bit suspicious.” The camera panned over to the front door, where Anthea’s guards looked out over the crowd.   
  
Mrs. Turner snorted. “Of course there are guards; have you notice the mob, by chance? I’d be more worried if Mrs. Hudson and her residents _hadn’t_ gotten some form of protection until this whole thing gets cleared up.” She shifted her shopping higher on one arm and nodded in the general direction of Downing Street. “And, that can’t happen soon enough so that we get some peace again.”   
  
“Thank you for your input, Mrs. Turner,” the reporter said, turning back to face the camera. “Back to you, Daryl.”   
  
“Thank you, Katherine. As the hour nears, we’re bringing you live to Downing Street, where the prime minister is about to address the rumours of alien life on the planet. Joseph?”   
  
“Well, Daryl, I’m here at Downing Street, where anticipation is high for the prime minister’s address. We can only assume that his personal attention to the matter means that there is more to the story than a simple prank.”   
  
John snorted, trying to reduce the tension. “That’s pretty safe to say, yeah.” Sherlock leaned over a bit and pressed against his side, saying nothing; the comfort of the touch calmed John just a tiny bit, though.   
  
A hush fell on the crowd of reporters, and John swallowed heavily as they watched the prime minister step out. The reporters remained quiet as the prime minister greeted them and introduced the topic with a reference to the explosion at the pool over a week before. There was silence as he confirmed that the events of the incident, as portrayed on the video clip, were untampered. When he released Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s names with the explanation that they were giving “full disclosure,” the media exploded into noise.   
  
After a few minutes of questions ranging from the idiotic (“Where did they come from?”) to the pragmatic (“Could you describe the diplomatic plan you’ll be implementing?”) to the hopeful (“Have they come to bring us into a new, more advanced era?”) to the nearly offensive (“What is the containment policy for the aliens? They’re not roaming the streets, are they?”), Sherlock stretched a hand out and flipped the telly off. John stared at the blank screen, feeling a strange sense of release. _It’s out,_ he thought. _There’s nothing to be done but go forward, now; the decision is made and done._ It was oddly liberating to no longer feel the need to worry about accidentally revealing Sherlock or Mycroft; now, the entire world would know about them. _The worst is over. We just have to survive the aftermath._

“Well, here we are,” Sherlock said beside him. “Almost anticlimactic, isn’t it?” Despite his casual words, he was blurring around the edges.  
  
John wrapped an arm over his shoulders and sighed. “It’ll be alright,” he promised. “We’ve got shiny new doors” – he waved his free hand towards the ground floor and the reinforced door that Anthea had had installed during an enforced lull in the protests as a concession to their unwillingness to move to a safe house – “and bulletproof windows. What’s the worst that can happen?”  
  
Sherlock leaned into John’s side and twisted his head unnaturally to look up at him. “I was under the impression that your culture considers that phrase to be an invitation to unfortunate circumstances. Are you trying to curse us?”  
  
Giggling a bit despite himself, John shook his head. “Not at all. I honestly think that things will be okay from here on out. It could be a lot worse, after all; we could still be in Orkney.”  
  
“True,” Sherlock conceded. “And, Anthea’s at least got experience with Mycroft, even if she wasn’t aware of his nature at the time.” His edges slowly sharpened as he calmed in John’s arms. “I think of the three of us, you’re the one I’m most worried about.”  
  
Surprised, John tilted his head. “Me?”  
  
“You. Mycroft and I are impervious to everything we’ve found on your planet, explosions included. If anyone gets hurt, it’ll be you.” A tendril slipped around John’s waist, and another latched onto his wrist. John rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s shoulder in reassurance. “I could keep you safe in Afghanistan because I was always with you, but Anthea’s keeping me here while you can leave.”  
  
“I don’t have to leave, though.” The words were out before John could even think about it, but he decided that he didn’t want to rescind the offer. “She said that if I decided to stay home she would extend my time off.”  
  
“You’ll get tired of me,” Sherlock argued. “You’ll get tired of being cooped up here all the time.”  
  
 _Maybe the latter,_ John silently agreed, _but not the first._ He felt affection bloom through chest, and his lips quirked up in a small grin. “I think it’s pretty safe to say that I’m not going to get frustrated with your company,” he said. Sherlock blinked up at him, and the image was just so adorable that John couldn’t help the swooping sensation in his stomach as he recognised how much he loved the alien.  
  
He immediately clamped down on the emotion and looked away, hoping that it hadn’t shown on his face. _Damn it,_ he cursed himself. _He’s not – I can’t keep doing this! I’m lucky he’s not figured it out yet. God, the awkwardness…._ John considered the promise he’d just made to stay under voluntary house arrest with Sherlock and felt a twinge of panic. _Okay, so maybe I would have a bit of a problem with it. I don’t know how long I can keep him from figuring out how I feel. Still, I’m not going to let it get in the way of what we’ve got. He’s my family; I just have to focus on that._  
  
Despite the reassurances he made for himself, their position suddenly seemed too intimate and suggestive. John tried to keep himself relaxed as Sherlock curled around him, but he couldn’t help the guilty relief that came when the alien abruptly stood and crossed the room to the kitchen. “Tea?” Sherlock offered, already plugging in the kettle.  
  
Sherlock’s apparent unawareness of John’s attraction was enough to let him bury the panic of the situation under the muted shouts of the crowd outside. _This isn’t the time for this; we’ve got much more important things to worry about than my nonexistent love life. Just let it go, Watson._ He smiled at Sherlock, hiding his heavy heart. “Sure,” he replied. “Thanks.”  
  
Maybe life wouldn’t be normal for them, now that Sherlock had been exposed to the world, but it had never really been normal in the first place, had it?  


* * *

The day was extremely trying, and not just because of the rapidly growing crowd outside. Anthea and Mycroft came by Baker Street for an hour so that the aliens could reconnect. Somehow, the emotional aftermath of Moriarty’s murder had slipped John’s mind, so it was with a renewed pain that he greeted Mycroft, who nodded to some point over John’s right shoulder.

“John,” Mycroft said flatly, already moving past him to Sherlock.  
  
John gave him a pained smile and turned to Anthea. “Good afternoon,” he said, motioning her into the flat.  
  
“I assume that all of you watched the press conference earlier,” Anthea began, moving to a window to look out on the crowd below. John knew that it was dauntingly massive, but Anthea showed no reaction beyond a slight tightening of her jaw. “For obvious reasons, we didn’t release the identity of the leak beyond what was already known, but I thought you’d like to know that we’ve tracked it to Arnold Zimmerman. He’s been fired, and he’s being charged for impersonating a police officer, as well as treason for disclosing confidential information.”  
  
 _That’s the bastard who thought Sherlock was buggering me,_ John remembered. _Why am I not surprised to find that he’s responsible for this mess?_ John shook his head and clenched his teeth, trying to force down the scream of rage at the injustice of it all. _What the hell gives him the right to do this to us? We never did anything wrong!_  
  
Sherlock, probably noticing his tension from the admittedly obvious signs, released Mycroft and wrapped a hand around the nape of John’s neck reassuringly. “Easy,” he murmured, ignoring Anthea’s interest. “Nothing will change what he did, and he’ll be punished for it. Let it go.”  
  
 _Pretty sentiments,_ John mentally snarled, _but I can see how strongly you’re shaking. You’re furious, too._ He glared at Sherlock, silently daring him to continue as if he wasn’t just as hurt and angry about Zimmerman’s actions as John.  
  
After a few seconds of tense silence, Sherlock blinked and turned to Anthea, changing the topic. “What evidence do you already have against him? How can we help?”  
  
Anthea glanced between them, eyes even flicking to Mycroft for second, before explaining that they’d tracked Zimmerman from the website by his IP address, despite his attempts to identify himself as Detective Inspector Gregson, an affable officer who John had worked with once or twice. John found a new level of antagonism for the man who had attempted to ruin not only John’s and the aliens’ lives but also that of an honourable officer of the law, and he easily agreed to testify against Zimmerman in court about the overheard conversation.  
  
During a lull in the discussion, Sherlock released John and returned to Mycroft, wrapping an overly-flexible arm around him. It was almost painful to watch the slight blurring in Mycroft’s features disappear with the simple action, and John had to swallow down the guilt and pity. _This must be so stressful for him: Sherlock and I have each other, but he’s trapped in his house with a suspicious ex-subordinate. God, how I wish there was something I could do._ John’s fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and brush through Mycroft’s hair in comfort, just like Mycroft had always done for him, but he forced it down and reminded himself that Mycroft wasn’t interested in any kind of comfort from John at the moment.  
  
Anthea and Mycroft left fairly quickly after that, and John turned on some light music to disguise the sounds of the crowd outside. Sherlock finally ended up on John’s laptop, surfing the internet for news that _didn’t_ relate to extraterrestrials, and John curled against him on the sofa and read over his shoulder. “Tower 42,” Sherlock read from one site, pointing at the story. “That’s where Sebastian works – remember the smuggling case?”  
  
John hummed and skimmed the article. “Someone jumped off the roof,” he summarized. “Suicide.” _Not even a UK citizen; that’ll cause some controversy. At least, it would if the whole alien thing wasn’t overshadowing every other news story at the moment._

“One of humanity’s more unusual traits,” Sherlock replied. It was a clear invitation for John to explain the intentions behind suicide, but John suspected that his own frustration with being unofficially ostracised by society would bring the explanation too close to home for his comfort: Keeping a positive attitude while protesters shouted abuse just outside the window was hard enough without considering the causes of suicide. He shook his head at Sherlock and made a mental note to point the alien towards some psychological studies on the topic later.  
  
The chanting outside had reached a point where John could clearly decipher the words through the walls – even through the chorus of the song playing – when his phone rang. _Oh, God, I hope they haven’t publicly posted my phone number now,_ he thought, fishing the mobile from his pocket. The name on the screen – _I thought she said that she never wanted to see or hear from me again?_ – had him seriously considering just tucking it back into his trousers, but he swallowed and answered. “Hello, Sarah.”  
  
“John Watson,” she said. John winced at the harsh, tense note in her voice. “London must be going insane; there’s no other explanation for it! Have you seen the news?” Before John could open his mouth to answer, she rambled, “No, of course you’ve seen it. There’s a bloody _mob_ outside your flat. John, what’s going on? I looked up at the news and saw the prime minister announcing that your flatmate is an alien! The _prime minister!_ What’s going on?!”  
  
John took a deep breath and waved away Sherlock, who had noticed the increase in tension and was staring at him with obvious concern. “Well, I suppose I should start with it being true,” he said. “Sherlock isn’t human.”  
  
There was a long pause on the other side of the line. “That…doesn’t make sense,” Sarah finally managed. “There’s no such thing as aliens. They don’t exist.”  
  
Flicking his eyes up to Sherlock, John replied, “I’m pretty sure that I’ve got the living counterargument to that sitting in my front room.”  
  
“Sherlock is – John, I _saw_ him. He looks just like a human!”  
  
“Yeah,” John replied dryly, a bit worried by her breathless tone. “They’re shape-shifters. Don’t worry; the few times he’s changed form on me, I didn’t recognize him until he pretty much told me who he was. All things considered, I’m not surprised you didn’t realise he was anything different.”  
  
The silence after that announcement was longer than the previous one, and John finally asked, “Are you alright? Do you need me to come over?” Sherlock leaned back into John’s chest, watching him with a raised eyebrow. _‘It’s fine,’_ John mouthed to him.  
  
“No, I don’t want you to come over. John – Jesus, John, did you even stop to think about what they could do with that kind of ability? They could be anyone, anywhere! They could impersonate me, or you, or – or the prime minister! They could _start a legitimate war_ as the nation’s leader!”  
  
“Sarah, they’re not going to impersonate anyone.” A moment after he said it, John remembered Jeremy, Sebastian’s boyfriend, and winced. _Not anymore,_ he silently amended. Sherlock blinked at him, twisted around, and rested a hand on his bare forearm. “They came here for peace; they won’t start a war.”  
  
“How do you know?” Sarah asked.  
  
“They wouldn’t –”  
  
 _“How do you know?”_  
  
“I just know. I trust them.” _Completely._ Sherlock smiled at him, and John returned it.  
  
“So, you decided to trust the fate of the _entire planet_ on a gut feeling? John, what the hell is wrong with you? Why didn’t you just go to the government right away?” A half-second passed. “Wait. How long have you known that he was…not human?”  
  
“Sherlock crash-landed his spaceship about a kilometre away from me when I was in Afghanistan, so…two years? Listen, Sarah, are you sure that you don’t want me to come over there? Or, you could come here. The crowd outside is pretty bad, but you don’t really sound like you’re handling this well.”

“Really? What makes you say that? I think I’m handling it about as well as can be expected, you know, finding out that the guy I dated – who got me kidnapped – is rooming with a _fucking alien._ What the hell were you _expecting?!”_ Her respiration rate had gotten audibly faster, and John detected a hint of tears in her voice.  
  
“Hey, easy,” he soothed, but she cut him off.  
  
“Don’t you fucking _‘easy’_ me, Watson. First you blow me off for months, then you get me abducted when I agree to a date with you, and _then_ I find out that you’ve had an _alien_ living with you for – what, years? Oh, God, I dread to think what would have happened if I’d stuck with you. Would you have let him eat my brain, or whatever it is he’s here to do, if he’d asked?” Her voice was rising in both volume and pitch, and she rode over any attempts John made to cut in. _“An alien,_ John! You’re living with an alien! What the hell do you think you’re playing at? God only knows what diseases it could be carrying; what if you’ve doomed the entire human race because of some foreign bug that we’ve got no natural defences against?”  
  
“They’re not toxic to us,” John tried to interject, but she continued, heedless, in her hysterical rant. John brought his free hand up and grasped Sherlock’s, stomach sinking as he listened. _Stop, Sarah. Please, stop and let me explain. I want you to understand, but I can’t do that if you don’t calm down._  
  
“Oh, God, I touched it, didn’t I? When we were in the tunnel, and they showed up and untied us – it touched my wrists to untie me; it must have!” _I doubt it,_ John thought. _Even in the middle of that situation, you would have definitely noticed his skin texture._ “I must have been too panicked to notice then, but I remember the slimy feeling on my hands; I remember feeling like it left some slimy residue.” The cadence of Sarah’s voice was utterly shattered by her frequent involuntary gasps of air, and John attempted to give her reason again.  
  
“He’s not slimy –”  
  
“Whatever they brought with them, I’ve got, don’t I? Oh God, oh God; what’s going to happen to me? Fuck you, John; you’ve killed me, and you’ve killed London, and you’ve killed Earth! _You’ve killed us all!”_ She was definitely hysterical at that point.  
  
John closed his eyes and tried to muster the will to explain again. He felt hollow, as if Sarah had scooped out his essence with her accusations and turned him into nothing more than a shell of a man. _I don’t want to hear this anymore. I don’t want to deal with her panic._ He clutched Sherlock’s hand in his own and took a shuddering breath.  
  
Sarah’s voice grew tinnier as Sherlock lifted the phone from his lax grip and pulled it away. It cut out completely when the alien snapped it closed and drew it into himself, muffling any future calls for the time being. “John?” he queried gently, wrapping both arms around him and pulling him into his chest. “Are you alright?”  
  
Unable to force the words past the tightness in his throat, John shook his head and grabbed Sherlock around the waist, burying his face into Sherlock’s strangely-textured skin – _No clothes because we didn’t go out; everything is formed_ – and squeezing his eyes shut. He remembered the attraction he’d felt for Sarah and how close he’d come to forming a relationship with her; he felt sick. _I don’t want to think about it. She – I – Just make the world go away for a while, please._ As if to specifically spite him, the crowd outside burst into a particularly loud chant at that moment. John wanted to scream.

Sherlock wrapped him up tighter against his unnervingly silent chest and curled around John, devolving back into a shapeless mass. It was like slipping into a pool of gel: Sherlock moulded himself around John and engulfed him almost entirely, slipping up the sides of his face to cover his ears against the offending noise from the street and wrapping his limbs in light pressure. John closed his eyes and relaxed into the oddly soothing hold – it’d never been the total contact that had bothered him when he’d panicked in Sherlock’s cocoon before, only the loss of control when the alien started to move him. But, he still felt his lungs stutter a bit as the conversation with Sarah took its toll.   
  
He didn’t cry, but he did feel that hollow sensation intensify until Sherlock applied pressure against his hand so that it felt exactly like he was holding it in his own. After that, John was able to focus on Sherlock and Sherlock alone, letting the alien restore some of his emotional equilibrium just by being present.   
  
_God, I love you,_ he remembered thinking as he finally relaxed enough to slip into a trance-like doze. _I don’t know how I’d survive without you._ And damn Sarah, anyway. She didn’t – couldn’t – understand.   


* * *

After the rather hellish day, John wasn’t that surprised to find himself gasping awake that night from a particularly vivid nightmare. _Damn,_ he thought half-hysterically as he tried to regain his breath. _I thought I’d gotten past that._ As he calmed, he gradually became more aware of Sherlock’s worried presence.   
  
“John?” the alien whispered, features blurred in the dim lighting. The tendril around his wrist – and around his waist; how had he missed that? – tightened convulsively before relaxing again. “Are you alright?” Sherlock shifted closer and huddled up against John’s side.   
  
“Nightmare,” John managed, forcing his lungs to regain their usual rhythm. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath and willed the fine tremor in his hand to disappear before Sherlock noticed it and took it for anger.   
  
Sherlock hesitated against him and threw another tendril across his body, holding him more securely. There was no way he’d have missed John’s shaking hand, but he thankfully seemed to be able to ignore it for the involuntary reaction that it was. “What happened?”   
  
John clamped down on the shudder that wanted to wrack his body. “You left.” _I really thought I was over this already, damn it._ “You and Mycroft – between the protesters outside, the constant suspicion and distrust, and Moriarty’s death, you decided that Earth was beyond your help, and our planet wasn’t worth the effort and pain.” _I wasn’t worth the effort and pain._ John swallowed hard and forced his voice to remain even. “So, you left.”   
  
_“I’m sorry, John, but we can’t do this anymore,” Sherlock said. He was standing a polite metre away from John. “Your planet is just too far gone. Perhaps nuclear winter is the only solution, after all: Wipe out the entire planet and start over. There’s no way to fix what you’ve become, now.”  
  
“Please, Sherlock, just give us one more chance!” John begged, taking a step closer and reaching for the alien. Sherlock backed away and evaded his touch. “For me, then. Stay for me.” He gathered up the heart-rending terror of losing Sherlock forever and said, “Stay because I love you.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him for a moment before looking over his shoulder. Mycroft was standing behind him where before there had only been empty space, and John’s soul flinched at the sight of him. The once-proud and enthusiastic alien looked utterly beaten: His posture drooped, and his features looked as though they’d been formed with only a modicum of effort. When Mycroft looked up, his face carried the expression of a man who’d lost everything he cared about._ Mycroft, _John thought, horrified,_ What have we done to you? _  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeated, looking back to John again. “You love me, but it’s not enough to justify suffering anymore.” A second of hesitation, and he stepped closer to John, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Goodbye.” No matter how hard John tried to clutch the alien close, Sherlock just slipped out of his hands like water and disappeared._

_Crying out to the starry night sky in the vain hope that Sherlock would hear him and reconsider, John collapsed to the ground and curled in on himself. God, it couldn’t have hurt more if Sherlock had physically carved John’s heart out of his chest and taken it with him. “Please,” John begged to the roaring silence. “Please, come back to me.”_   
  
“John, I’m not going to leave you,” Sherlock said, drawing John away from the memory of the dream. He realized that he was shaking, but Sherlock hadn’t pulled away, instead clutching him closer. Sherlock tucked John’s face into his shoulder and rubbed the back of his neck reassuringly. “We’ve come too far to just give up on you.”   
  
“Promise me.” John said fiercely, almost willing to force a commitment from Sherlock if necessary.   
  
“I swear it. We’re not leaving. John, we really _can’t_ leave at the moment: My ship was destroyed when I crashed in Afghanistan, and Mycroft’s won’t carry both of us.”   
  
The guilty relief at finding that Sherlock was effectively trapped with him left John feeling dizzy, and his sudden intensity left as abruptly as it had come. _On the one hand, that makes this entire situation that much more dangerous: They can’t just leave if it gets to be too much. On the other, I really don’t want them to leave me here._ Just the thought of going back to the shadow of a life he’d had after Afghanistan and before Sherlock had found him again was terrifying. _That’s not exactly what would happen, though, is it? Everything has changed, now that the world knows aliens exist…. Wait._ “Mycroft’s ship is still intact? Where is it?”   
  
“He left it concealed – _very_ well concealed – in the northern regions of the UK. It’s in no danger of being stumbled upon by a lost hiker. When it comes time for Mycroft to contact our home planet with a report, he takes a trip to send the message from the craft’s controls. He’ll do the same once our mission is complete, and several of our brethren will travel here to meet your kind. Mycroft and I will be the guides and diplomats.”   
  
The conversation was distracting John from the worrying nightmare, at least; he felt his heart rate and breathing patterns fall back into something resembling calm. “So, you’re not leaving even when the mission is concluded?” he verified   
  
“Not for a while after that,” Sherlock agreed. The cocoon around John’s body tightened spasmodically for a second before relaxing. “But, you shouldn’t worry about that right now. We’ve got time, and you’re tired.” He rearranged them so that John was lying down and removed most of his mass until only a few tendrils curled around John’s shoulders, waist, and – of course – wrist. “Go back to sleep.”   
  
With a last thought to Mycroft, Sherlock, and the sudden realization that his time with them might be more limited than he’d thought, John closed his eyes and relaxed into the comforting pressure of Sherlock’s grip. _I don’t want you to ever leave me._   


* * *

Life settled as much as it could in the circumstances, but surprises were the norm now. One of those came three days later in the form of Mrs. Hudson. Anthea and Mycroft came to Baker Street again, but this time the focus of Anthea’s attention was John and Sherlock’s landlady, much to John’s bemusement. Even the aliens were watching the proceedings with a general air of confusion while they leaned against each other on the sofa.   
  
“We know we’ve got a mole in the Ministry of Defence,” Anthea was saying as she sipped from the tea that Mrs. Hudson had set before her, “but we don’t know who.”   
  
Mrs. Hudson tilted her head toward Mycroft. “You could start by setting him on the trail,” she suggested, but Anthea’s immediate grimace indicated that was not an option. That was, perhaps, the strangest thing to John: Anthea conversing with Mrs. Hudson was one thing, but Anthea asking her for _advice_ was something else entirely. “I assume that you’ve narrowed the suspect pool to those who would have easy access to the information?”   
  
“Of course.”

“Still a large pool, then, I gather. Well, in that case, the easiest thing to do would be to plant false information – certain versions to certain people – and see which one shows up in the networks. That could backfire, though, if the mole is more than one person.”  
  
“Just a moment,” John interjected, desperately trying to make sense of the scene before him. “Why are you” – he pointed at Anthea – “asking her” – Mrs. Hudson – “about government espionage?”  
  
Mrs. Hudson turned to him, clearly amused by his bewilderment. "You didn't think they'd entrust watching over you to some doddering old woman, did you?" Mrs. Hudson teased. "I’ve a bit more experience in ‘government espionage’ than you might think." She smiled.  
  
John stared at her. “Are you serious? You were really –?”  
  
She cut him off. “Shh, dearie; there are some things you don’t say out loud, even in retirement.” Absurdly, she winked. Anthea hid a smirk behind her tea.  
  
 _Right,_ John thought, shaking his head. _We’ve been living with a retired spy for the last year. How the hell has Sherlock not been caught out before this?_  
  
Poor Sherlock looked utterly gob smacked at the realization, but he regained control of his features and cleared his throat. "I see," he said, glancing around the room. "It does make a certain amount of sense," he admitted, "despite the apparent improbability. And, it means that we're safer in this building than I'd originally thought."  
  
“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson beamed. “I’m glad to have you.” She turned back to Anthea, who was obviously fighting a grin. “If you want my honest opinion, enlist Mycroft’s assistance. You’ve got him at your disposal, and from what I’ve overheard my two talking about, he’s probably eager to work. Correct?” she tossed to the alien.  
  
“Correct,” Mycroft confirmed after a moment, face blank with surprise.  
  
Mrs. Hudson smiled at him and turned her attention back to Anthea. “There, you see? We’ve got that sorted, then.”  
  
Anthea sobered, looking Mycroft over. “You’ll understand if I express some hesitance about reinstating your security clearance, limited though it may be,” she said.  
  
 _And, we’re back to this argument again,_ John mentally groused. _What’s it going to take to convince her that they can be trusted?_ He shook his head and sat on one of the armchairs across from the aliens while the others debated the issue. Surprisingly enough, Mrs. Hudson seemed to be the catalyst; when Anthea and Mycroft left again, it was with the understanding that Mycroft would be granted limited clearance in order to find the mole in the Ministry of Defence.  
  
John stared at the unassuming woman while the door closed downstairs, muting the burst of sound from the protesters outside. She gathered her tea accessories before moving to peck him on the cheek. “Don’t fret,” she scolded. “I’m still the same old coot as before, aren’t I?”  
  
Blinking at the unintentional echo of his usual defence for Sherlock and Mycroft, John could only watch speechlessly as she wrapped Sherlock in a hug, demanding that he come and visit her more often to share about the life of an extraterrestrial. With scarcely a word more, she took her possessions and returned downstairs.  
  
A few seconds later, John felt the distinctive slide of oil-plastic skin against his elbow. Sherlock was standing beside and behind him, one hand unobtrusively brushing against his arm. “That was enlightening,” Sherlock commented blandly, and the comment was such an understatement that John couldn’t have stopped the ensuing giggles if his life had depended on it. _God, my life is weird. Wouldn’t have it any other way, though._  


* * *

Anthea’s agreement wasn’t the windfall John had thought it to be, he found out during their next visit. When the noise level outside suddenly rose, Sherlock exchanged a sardonically amused glance with John before heading to the ground floor to let his brother in. John could hear them from the sitting room, which wasn’t very surprising when he considered how loudly they had to speak to be heard over the protesters.   
  
“Good morning, Sherlock,” Anthea was saying. The roar of sound diminished when the front door closed, and John had to strain to hear the next bit.

“Not an option,” Anthea replied with a slight waver in her voice. _She’s probably never seen Mycroft angry,_ John realized. “I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to trust _us_ to be good enough to catch them without you.”  
  
“You’re being frustratingly stupid about this,” John exploded, clenching his mug of tea. At Anthea’s surprised look and the blank expressions from the aliens, he continued, “You’ve as good as admitted that you can’t solve this without Mycroft’s help, but you’re still being stubborn and keeping him out of the loop. When you need help, you _take it where you can get it._ That’s why Sherlock was able to help the police department for the last two years; that’s why you had no problem with Mycroft doing analyses on the state of the world: They were willing and able, and you needed them. Now you’re turning them away? Are you an _idiot?”_  
  
Anthea gritted her teeth. “I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got,” she snapped back. “How do you think it would look if it got out that we were letting an extraterrestrial – one that a good portion of the population determinedly believes is out to destroy our society – advise us on the criminal organization built by the man who _mysteriously_ died during a confrontation with his brother?” John swallowed nervously, but she continued. “Believe me, it would get out no matter what precautions we took. Someone would find out, and then we’d have lost the public’s trust.” As if to emphasize her point, the noise of the protesters outside swelled.  
  
There was silence for several seconds before Sherlock cried, “It’s just not _fair!”_ and devolved into a puddle. John stared at him, heart breaking a little, and desperately wished that he could change the world to make it better. _I’m so sorry, Sherlock. Our troubled little planet just isn’t good enough to be worthy of you._ He glanced at Mycroft, who had stretched a hand down to rest against Sherlock. _Either of you._  
  
The tension seemed to dissipate with the ringing echoes of Sherlock’s shout until Anthea sighed heavily and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “I know it’s not fair,” she told Mycroft. “I wish I could change the way it works or speed up mankind’s – the government’s – acceptance of you, but I can’t. Maybe you’re right: Maybe you’d be able to fix the situation in a day if I gave you access to all of our records. But, I just…can’t.”  
  
Mycroft stared at her blankly and nodded before whiting out and devolving beside Sherlock. John watched the aliens curl over each other in comfort before looking up at Anthea. “They just want to help,” he said helplessly. Anthea only nodded, staring at the aliens.  
  
It was the first time John had been on the outside of one of their huddles, but while he longed to join them and add whatever comfort he could, he didn’t dare risk causing Mycroft more distress. The aliens settled and stilled, leaving John and Anthea in an awkward silence as the charged atmosphere subsided.  


* * *

“Are you alright?” John asked when Anthea and Mycroft had finally gone. Sherlock smiled at him, but it was missing the spark of veracity John had come to know. John pulled him into an embrace. “You’re not.”   
  
“I will be,” Sherlock assured him. After a few seconds, he pulled away and went for John’s laptop. “But, there’s something that Mycroft said….” He trailed off, already pulling up a web browser.   
  
Eyebrow raised, John sat beside him and peered at the screen. “Sherlock! That’s my Met employee account!”   
  
“Observant.”   
  
“You can’t just hack the police records, Sherlock; that goes beyond illegal!”   
  
Sherlock huffed out a sigh. “It was something Mycroft said,” he explained. “The Black Lotus is showing up all over the world; the dead man from Tower 42 – remember the article earlier? – was a Chinese national.”   
  
“You think the Black Lotus killed him? Just because he was Chinese, it doesn’t mean he was involved with them,” John said.   
  
“Possibly,” Sherlock said, scrolling through the police report faster than John could read. “Or, it could just be suicide after all. No harm in checking, is there?”

_There’s plenty harm in checking if you’re hacking into my account to do it._ John made to grab his laptop away from Sherlock and log out, but Sherlock froze and stared at the section on injuries. “It’s certainly not suicide,” he reported. “The police are saying that he jumped from the roof, but the injuries in the police report aren’t consistent with a fall from that height. He fell from a lower floor, which means that he fell from someone’s office window. He _could_ work in the building and have jumped from his own office, but the police probably would have identified him then. Even Anderson’s not that incompetent.”   
  
“Sherlock.”   
  
“It was a compliment: I said he _wasn’t_ that incompetent! Either way, our dead body didn’t jump from his own office; the report shows he didn’t work in the building.” Sherlock spoke faster as he started following his chain of logic out loud. “Security is tight there – you remember how much effort Sebastian put into finding the hole in the bank? – so he probably didn’t jump from an empty office; they’re all securely locked. How could he have gotten into an office, then? Someone let him in. If someone was there with him when he committed suicide, they would have either stopped him or come forward to the police afterwards. No one did, though; whoever was in that office helped him out the window. It was murder.”   
  
_That’s a lot of suppositions,_ John thought. “It could have been suicide,” he countered. “Maybe the jumper just happened to stumble across an office that was unlocked while the worker went to the loo? Or, whoever was in the office was just so traumatized by the incident that they didn’t go to the police to give a statement.”   
  
Sherlock hesitated for a second before barrelling on. “It’s been over twenty-four hours since the man fell; if there were witnesses, there would have been some rumours for the police to pick up on, at least. It’s murder.” He snapped the laptop closed and pulled out his mobile. “We need to go to the scene and – oh.” In the silence, John watched Sherlock visibly deflate while the noise of the protesters came through clearly. “No, we can’t.”   
  
_He can’t go to the scene to try and solve the case,_ John translated, sighing. _He can’t even ask for information on it because he’s not supposed to be looking at cases at all._ “I’m sure they’ll be able to figure it out on their own,” he comforted. _Assuming, of course, that there actually is a murder and it’s not a suicide._ Outside, the crowd’s chants and cheers swelled, signalling the arrival of yet more television cameras. _Oh, just shut up, would you?_   
  
“Of course they will,” Sherlock grumbled. Before John could ask whether he meant that seriously or sarcastically, Sherlock stood and marched away, already dialling the Met on his phone. “Even if I can’t solve it myself, I can still get the police on the right track. We were supposed to meet with the police commissioner before we left for Orkney, after all; I’d say we’ve put off our meeting long enough. Wouldn’t you agree?”   
  
John shook his head and relaxed back into the sofa. _He’s not being scientific about this at all. It’s almost as if he were looking for the signs of a murder so hard that he’s begun to imagine them._ After a moment, he realized that he’d probably gotten it exactly right. _Just like when he grabbed my face during the smuggling case,_ he decided: _He wished so much then that he could feel my emotions that he thought he did. Now, he wishes he could have a case to solve, so he’s finding a murder where there isn’t one._   
  
He considered the harm that could come of someone like Sherlock correlating clues that didn’t exist but ultimately dismissed it. _Gabe won’t let him on the case, and if it looks like Sherlock’s getting too determined about this I can reel him in. Besides,_ he thought, watching Sherlock pace and ripple with increasing agitation, _he needs something to focus on. This is driving him crazy_ .   
  
After a few minutes of conversation, Sherlock snapped the phone shut and turned to John with a grin. “We’re scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. They’ll smooth things over with Anthea and bring us an escort.”

John couldn’t help but think that the chants outside foretold the eventual disappointment they’d find.   


* * *

It was with high hopes (and a bit of cynicism) that John and Sherlock finally managed to go to the Met, but the ensuing meeting with the commissioner was a negative experience for everyone involved. When their escort returned John and Sherlock back to Baker Street, Sherlock slammed through the doors and threw himself onto the sofa, skin rippling violently. John closed the door to their flat, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s inquisitive noises from the stairs, and scrubbed a hand over his face.   
  
“We suspected this would happen,” he reminded Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock devolved and reformed in abrupt succession. “Does that make it any better? He blatantly admitted that he doesn’t trust the testimony of a non-human.” He twisted over on himself and stared at the floor. “I could accept that it’s political, but calling my expertise into question because I’m _not human?”_   
  
John clenched his jaw and averted his gaze. _It was uncalled for,_ he thought in agreement. _And, if that wasn’t enough, he had to go and demand a review of every case Sherlock’s ever helped with. It’s almost like he’s going out of his way to insult Sherlock._   
  
Behind him, Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door to their flat. “Everything alright, loves?”   
  
“Not really,” John replied, turning and opening the door. He motioned Mrs. Hudson in and leaned against the wall beside the entryway. “The commissioner wasn’t very…accommodating.” _Or even polite._   
  
“Well, that’s his own problem, now isn’t it?” She smiled beatifically at John’s incredulous expression and turned her attention to Sherlock. “Now, don’t mope about so; why don’t you find something to keep yourself entertained, instead?”   
  
“There’s nothing to do!” Sherlock snarled, jumping up and pacing the room. “I can’t solve cases; I can’t even go outside! All I can do is sit here and rot away, atrophying from the lack of _anything.”_ He melted into his natural form and thrashed about on the floor in clear frustration.   
  
Mrs. Hudson glanced at John warily, having never been witness to one of Sherlock’s tantrums. John shook his head at her, knelt beside the quivering alien, and pressed one hand against Sherlock’s mass in comfort. Sherlock wrapped around John’s fingers and held him fast, as if he was trying to ground himself with John’s touch. The jerky, uncoordinated movements died away, and Sherlock pushed John to his feet, reforming as a human in the process. “Sorry,” he muttered to Mrs. Hudson.   
  
“It’s quite alright, dear,” she replied, scrutinizing him. “Completely understandable, considering the circumstances you’re in.” She tilted her head towards the window, where the shouts of the protesters on the street filtered into the otherwise silent flat. “A bit of self-expression can’t go wrong now and again.”   
  
Sherlock rippled once against John’s side but nodded. “Of course. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to read some articles.” Ignoring John’s worried glance at the flat tone, Sherlock collected John’s laptop and settled in on the couch. He gave no indication of the frustration he’d demonstrated only a few seconds before.   
  
Mrs. Hudson blinked and raised an eyebrow at John, as if asking him whether there was anything she could do. John quirked his lips and shrugged. _Unless someone can convince the commissioner to change his mind, there’s nothing to be done._ She nodded and turned so that she was facing both of them. “If you need anything, let me know; I’m going to have tea with Mrs. Turner downstairs – she’s been in a bit of a tizzy ever since you went public.”   
  
“Thank you, we will,” John replied after a few seconds of silence. Sherlock, it seemed, was still sulking a bit. Mrs. Hudson smiled and retreated, leaving John to entertain himself. Sherlock flattened out disconcertingly and curled over John’s legs like a blanket when John sat down beside him; John accepted the tacit apology and tried to ignore the sounds of the crowd outside.

Now that the room was silent again, John could hear the rhythm of a chant outside. After he caught a few expletives, he actively attempted to tune it out. _Best to not think about what they’re saying,_ he reasoned, figuring that it was probably the media-dubbed Pro-Earthlings shouting abuse. They had a fair amount of Pro-Alien protesters outside, too, but the moderate centrists in the issue apparently figured that watching from their television screens at home was good enough. _Not that I blame them,_ John thought. _With the way the media’s polarized the issue, people have been picking one extreme or another. It’s like there’s no middle ground anymore._ That was a pity, as John figured that several of the so-called Pro-Earthlings were actually more accepting of Sherlock and Mycroft than the reporters implied.   
  
John reached for the remote for the telly, figuring that he could drown out the protesters. The news came on, and John left it on to see what public opinion was for Sherlock and Mycroft. They were still the top story; as the advertisements ended, the newscaster started talking over a camera pan of their street. There were a few neutral-looking bystanders, but the street was crowded with Pro-Earth and Pro-Alien protesters screaming at each other. Their guards were stationed at the front door while police officers patrolled the protesters to maintain a semblance of peace. _At least they mostly quit every night; I don’t even want to imagine what it’d be like if I had to deal with them while I was trying to sleep._ After watching the clearly sensationalized report for a few minutes, he changed the channel to a game show. _Good to know that some things never change._   


* * *

Several minutes later, Sherlock suddenly sat up on the sofa and held the laptop in front of John’s face. “Look, John,” Sherlock breathed. “This changes everything.”   
  
“What is it?” John glanced at the screen and did a double-take. “You hacked my account _again!_ Sherlock, you can’t keep doing this.”   
  
Sherlock shook his head and made a noise in his throat. “No, not that; look at the picture: The police identified the so-called suicide. Do you remember Soo Lin Yao’s flat?” John blinked at the conversational whiplash and nodded. “I went in while you waited outside, and a man attacked me.” He nodded at the screen. “That’s him.”   
  
John examined the image with sharpened interest. “You’re sure?” Sherlock shot him a flat look, and he flushed. “Fine, you’re sure. But, what’s a professional assassin doing lying at the base of a skyscraper?”   
  
“He fell,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps he was the one who climbed through the victims’ windows during the smuggling case; he climbed up the side of Tower 42 again, but this time something happened to make him lose his grip.” Before John could comment, Sherlock shook his head and laced his fingers together before melding them to form a single ball of his hands. “No, that’s not right. The body was too far from the base of the building; even adjusting for possible wind factors, he’d have been…” Sherlock trailed off for a second, doing the calculations in his head as he mumbled increasingly complex physics equations. “At least half a metre closer to the building. Someone pushed him.” He looked at John with a grin. “Someone in that building made an enemy of the Black Lotus, knew that it was sending an operative to kill him and pushed the assassin out the window. I’m sure of it.”   
  
Assuming Sherlock was right about the assassin being the one who had assaulted him in Soo Lin’s apartment, it did seem plausible. _Much more likely than I had originally thought,_ John admitted privately. “Looks like you might have a case,” he agreed.   
  
Abruptly, Sherlock deflated. “No, I’m not permitted a case,” he spat. Before he could work himself into a true snit, his phone rang. Eyebrows raised, he announced, “It’s Lestrade.”

When he answered the phone, Sherlock immediately spent several minutes summarizing what he’d discovered based on the report before finally falling silent and letting Gabe speak. His expression went blank, and he rippled with increasing force as he listened to Gabe’s response. “Of course,” he said, turning to John. “Here.” He handed John the phone and melted back against John’s side, skin paling as he shuddered.   
  
“Hello?” John answered, staring down at Sherlock with no little worry.   
  
“He’s not exactly happy with me, I’m sure,” Gabe replied in greeting. John was inclined to agree. “I figured that he wouldn’t be thrilled after that meeting; we’ve already gotten the summarized version of what the commissioner said. We’re not to accept any help from him at all, and those of us who have worked with him in the past are under much heavier scrutiny now. It was a bum move, and it’s not won him any points in the department, let me tell you.”   
  
“That really doesn’t help us, though, does it?”   
  
Gabe sighed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. I guess what I want to say is that we – Sally, Andy, and I – we’re with you and Sherlock on this one, but there’s not much we can do against orders.”   
  
“I understand,” John said. _We can’t ask them to give up their jobs for us, even if we all know that the commissioner is an idiot._ “Thanks, anyway.”   
  
“Sorry I couldn’t do more,” Gabe replied. “Keep an eye on him, yeah? When this all blows over, we’ll have to go out for a pint.”   
  
“Sure.” Neither wanted to voice the real possibility that it might never actually blow over. They kept up an awkward conversation for a few more seconds before hanging up; John looked down at Sherlock and shook his head. “That’s that, I suppose?” He dropped a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, but Sherlock shrugged it off and sat up.   
  
“No, that is not that,” he grumbled, snatching up John’s computer. “There has to be something more I can find – something more I can _do.”_   
  
_He’s not going to let this go,_ John realized. After a few more seconds of watching Sherlock work, he gave up and settled into the couch beside him, grabbing a medical journal on the way. The typing slowed for several moments while Sherlock probably focused his attention on him, but when John made no motion to interrupt Sherlock leaned into him and resumed his frantic pace.   


* * *

“John, you can help me,” Sherlock stated a few hours later. John looked up from the medical journal he wasn’t reading, mind too awhirl with the earlier events, and tilted his head. Sherlock elaborated, “I need to get more information; I need to _see._ You said that you intended to take extended leave and stay with me – which I greatly appreciate; thank you – but you _could_ return to work if you wanted to.”   
  
Fairly sure he knew where this was going, John started to shake his head before Sherlock could finish his proposal. “I could get so much more than fired for sneaking you into the Met, let alone out of the flat,” he argued, “especially considering what Gabe said about being closely watched. What if they decide that the only way to remove temptation is to separate us and move us to different facilities?”   
  
“I’d escape and come back to you until they gave up,” Sherlock replied confidently. John was still wary, but admitted that the plan had merit: He doubted anyone could keep Sherlock locked up securely and away from him if Sherlock wanted to reach him. “John, think of the _mystery,”_ he entreated, moving to John’s side. “We could solve this!” No doubt seeing the hesitance in John’s expression, Sherlock switched tactics. “And, there’s a killer on the loose in London.”   
  
“There’s always a killer on the loose in London.”   
  
Rippling lightly, Sherlock continued, “I’ve tried every other avenue: I’ve told the commissioner, I’ve told Gabe, and I _would_ tell Mycroft, except Anthea’s blocking him, too.”   
  
Looking at Sherlock and seeing his desperation to solve the murder and find the one responsible for killing a Black Lotus assassin – and yeah, okay; John could admit that he was intrigued – John felt his resolution crumble. _This is such a bad idea._ “Alright. We’ll do it.”

Sherlock grinned at him and caught him up in a hug. “Thank you. Now, come on! We don’t have any time to lose. I need you to get me into the morgue so that I can examine the body; there’s got to be a sign of the struggle somewhere.” He turned away and paced the room. “Ideally, we’d go to the scene of the crime and examine Tower 42 for clues, but it would be hard to justify a medical examiner going there even without the scrutiny of higher-ups. The best way to go about this would be if I hid on your uniform again – if you wouldn’t mind?” he added, turning to stare at John.   
  
_What the hell; why not. In for a penny…._ “Sure. We’re going to need an escort to the station, though; does that mean we’ll have to call Anthea?”   
  
“No, Mrs. Hudson should be able to do the job. She’s less likely to see through us, too; Anthea is by far more suspicious. Are you ready?” At John’s nod, Sherlock swooped in on him and moulded himself to John’s clothes. _Here we go again,_ John thought as Sherlock twitched his limbs to get him used to the feeling of being moved around. They took a few experimental steps to get their rhythm aligned and headed downstairs to request a day at work for John.   


* * *

Five minutes later, John sat on the sofa in their sitting room and watched Sherlock ripple and grumble about landladies who decided to be observant at the least-opportune times. “Well, I feel like a heel,” John muttered, catching Sherlock’s attention.   
  
When John had asked for an escort to the Met, Mrs. Hudson had adopted the most devastatingly disappointed expression John had seen since he moved out of his mother’s house over twenty years ago. “Really, John,” she’d said with no sign of her usual cheer. “I hope you don’t actually believe that I’m as gullible as that. Tell me: If I were to head upstairs after you’d gone, would I find Sherlock?”   
  
Too surprised that they’d been found out so quickly, John hadn’t reacted quickly enough to defer suspicion. Mrs. Hudson had patted him on the shoulder, brushing over Sherlock in the process and removing any chance of continuing the charade, and sent them back upstairs with a murmured rebuke.   
  
John closed his eyes and tilted his head back into the sofa cushion, humming in approval when Sherlock curled against his side and brushed through his hair. “Let’s not try to sneak past the ex-spy landlady again, alright?”   
  
Sherlock huffed and sulked for a bit, but the shifting pressure against John’s head never faltered. “We moved too soon,” Sherlock decided. “She was expecting us to attempt something like this after my tantrum this morning. We’ll have to wait before making another attempt.” John tensed under Sherlock’s hand, and the alien added, “We’ll adopt another strategy, of course; there’s got to be a legitimate reason for us both to leave the house for a while.” He sighed, and John felt a hint of a ripple against his scalp. “Mrs. Hudson will be suspicious for a while, unfortunately. We’ll have to wait a few days, at least, before trying again.”   
  
Feeling decidedly less enthusiastic about the whole endeavour now that they’d already been caught out, John merely nodded and hoped that Sherlock wasn’t planning anything too radical.   


* * *

While Sherlock and John waited for Mrs. Hudson’s suspicions to fade, the case remained in stasis. As usual, their only visitor was Mycroft when Anthea dropped him off at the flat for a few hours while she and Mrs. Hudson collaborated downstairs to write their reports on the “alien-watch,” as Mrs. Hudson had teasingly dubbed it. Upstairs, John and the two aliens sat at angles to each other and let the awkward silence grow depressingly loud. After ten minutes of sitting and staring at the others – or deliberately not staring at each other, in Mycroft and John’s case – Sherlock let out an explosive sigh and rippled in frustration.

“This is ridiculous,” he complained. “We can’t keep doing this.” John and Mycroft exchanged a look of confusion, though the gesture was quickly aborted when they realised they were breaking their unspoken estrangement. Sherlock growled and pointed at them. “You see? That! That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Mycroft, John is _our brother._ I know you’re hurt, but I’m not letting you destroy our family because you can’t accept that you were wrong.”  
  
“Pardon?” Mycroft replied, rippling in response as the building tension of the last few weeks finally broke. “‘Accept that I was wrong?’ About what, dear brother?”  
  
“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know,” Sherlock snarled, fingers twisting and twining about themselves. John watched the tension in the room escalate with a hazy sense of dread. “We’ve been having this argument from almost the first moment we spoke to each other on this planet. _You_ can’t admit that I was right about individualism on Earth; _you_ can’t accept that you fell victim to it, too!”  
  
Sherlock was nearly seething by that point, and his completely unexpected accusation left John and Mycroft staring at him in bewilderment. “I tried to explain that Earth is different – _humanity_ is different,” Sherlock hissed, “but you refused to listen. They _don’t think like us,_ Mycroft. We meet another of our kind, and we understand them immediately; humans can’t do that – they don’t have the tools see past the outward differences. They group themselves into little war-tribes and battle other war-tribes, every one sure that the other is wrong. Humans don’t go to war because their leaders think it might be ‘profitable’; if that were the case, there’d be no soldiers on the battlefields. No, humans fight and kill each other because they perceive a threat to their families – to their people. What was the phrase, John? ‘Us versus them?’ _That’s_ why humans commit crimes against each other. _That’s_ why they fight wars. _That’s_ why you killed Moriarty.” A humourless smile broke over Sherlock’s lips. “You’ve integrated the human culture better than you’d thought, haven’t you?”  
  
Mycroft’s skin paled to nearly white, and he blurred horribly. “Stop,” he whispered.  
  
John was half-certain that Sherlock was going to ignore the plea and continue his censure – John honestly didn’t know how he’d have reacted himself if Sherlock did – but the alien merely sighed and extended an arm to Mycroft. The last of the colour faded from Mycroft’s skin, and he collapsed into Sherlock’s arms. After a few seconds, Sherlock looked up at John with a blank expression. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said softly, hands still running over Mycroft in comfort, “but it had to be said. He needed to understand.”  
  
 _Maybe so, but did it need to be so cruel?_ John shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “Will he be alright, though?” _I may love you, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll just stand back and let you break my other brother. Even if he doesn’t accept me as his anymore._  
  
Looking down at the pale mass twining up his arms and around his waist, Sherlock nodded. “I think so, now that he finally realises why he instinctively chose you over Moriarty.” He devolved one arm and spread it to cover Mycroft’s side. “And, I think the insight will ultimately help him in our mission. He has to understand this.”  
  
“The mission,” John repeated flatly. “Is that why you did that?” _Did you just force your brother to face a horrible trauma so that you could further the mission? Is that all that’s important to you?_  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, but he didn’t elaborate. After a few minutes, Mycroft pulled away from Sherlock and reformed into the most basic of human forms. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm; Sherlock nodded and stood. “I’ll be in the kitchen, should you need me,” he told John before leaving.  
  
“I owe you an apology, John,” Mycroft began a few moments after Sherlock disappeared through the doorway. “I shouldn’t have – Sherlock was right: You’re a brother to us, and this was not your fault. I shouldn’t have removed myself from you.”

“Completely understandable,” John managed, tensed and hoping that he wouldn’t do something to hurt the suddenly fragile-looking alien. “He was about to” – _I probably shouldn’t directly mention Moriarty after Sherlock’s tirade_ – “…yeah.”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
Something occurred to John, and he asked, “Did I ever thank you for saving my life?”  
  
Mycroft blinked and tilted his head. “I don’t believe so,” he commented.  
  
“Oh. Well, thank you. I – I wish you’d never had to do it, and I’m sorry that it cost you so much, but thank you.” They stared at each other awkwardly for a few seconds, Mycroft occasionally flickering into pale white before forcing himself back into colour, and John was certain that he didn’t imagine the annoyed huff from the kitchen. _This is ridiculous. Why does it have to be this way? We used to be so close, and now we can’t even carry on a conversation._ “I wish you could just get rid of the memory,” he blurted.  
  
Mycroft’s expression blanked for a moment. “What?”  
  
 _Well, the words are already out there._ “I wish that you could erase the memory of the entire thing,” John replied. “Then you wouldn’t have to feel guilty all the time about it. You wouldn’t have to remember” – _‘seeing Moriarty’s back and finding the most lethal shot’ – ‘his heart pumping around me as I killed him’_ – “it.” John glanced in the direction of the kitchen, where Sherlock was politely pretending to not hear them. “But, I know you can’t, so there’s not really any reason to wish it, is there?”  
  
“What did he tell you?” Mycroft asked, tilting his head towards the kitchen. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.” When John had briefly outlined Sherlock’s explanation, Mycroft shook his head. “That’s not wholly accurate; I _could_ delete the entire incident – I’m physically capable of it – and just plead ignorance whenever something related to it came up, but I won’t. I don’t want to have another Johanna Flahave.”  
  
John had to take a moment to parse the non sequitur, but he guessed, “You don’t want there to be doubt about how he died?”  
  
“Precisely,” Mycroft agreed, voice even despite the intermittent blurring. “For a deletion of the memory to be entirely successful, Sherlock would have to delete it as well – that’s why we didn’t get find any sign of Johanna Flahave in our scouts’ reports. If Sherlock still had the memory, I’d just end up reading it from him every time he thought of it while we touched. That would leave you as the only one who knew exactly what happened, and you’ve already decided to keep that information private. You’d carry the burden of this knowledge alone.”  
  
 _It makes sense, I suppose,_ John thought grimly. _I certainly understand why he doesn’t want another misunderstanding like the one with Moriarty. Though, if he’s not planning to erase the memory…_ “Are you going to tell anyone what happened?”  
  
“Eventually, yes,” Mycroft said. Oddly enough, his features gained clarity at the statement. “I’ll have to give a full report on my time here when I reconnect with my…supervisor, I suppose. I won’t hide the experience; if ever someone accuses my species of murdering Moriarty” – his voice broke on the name as his form slipped momentarily – “I don’t want them to face this uncertainty.”  
  
Remembering how shocked and horrified Sherlock had seemed when Moriarty had made his accusation, John nodded. “That’s…really rather good of you,” he decided. At Mycroft’s curious tilt of the head, he elaborated, “You could have just pretended it didn’t happen or hidden it from your planet when you returned, right? Instead, you’re coming clean about it. That’s…good.” He smiled weakly, but it grew in strength when Mycroft returned the gesture.  
  
Clearing his throat and feeling inexplicably nervous, John asked, “So, any change on the Anthea situation?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Mycroft sighed. “We’ve both been chafing at the close contact. She follows me _constantly;_ it’s maddening. And, you can’t imagine how many people she’s running interference with; hundreds – thousands – of legitimate politicians and scientists want to meet with us, but it’s just too precarious right now. I honestly wonder, sometimes, if she’s getting any work done. Considering how much is supposedly ‘above my clearance,’ despite the fact that I can figure most of it out just by paying attention, she must have delegated away most of her previous duties. Goodness knows that she’s not away from me long enough that _I’d_ be able to solve any of the problems I’m seeing on the news.” He went blank for a moment before turning to face John more directly. “Except, I haven’t seen signs of improvement. Is she wasting all her time watching me?” He was blatantly ignoring John by that point, focus turned entirely inward. “Of course; I should have seen it sooner. She’s devoted _all_ her attention to me when she should be attending to greater matters. That’s why she’s been getting frustrated with me.”  
  
“I hear you,” John interjected, interrupting Mycroft’s train of thought. “I can’t wait for the day when everyone figures out that you and Sherlock aren’t anything to be feared; it’ll make all of our lives much easier.” At Mycroft’s questioning look, John elaborated, “We haven’t even been outdoors in days, excluding the trip to the Met a few days ago. The media frenzy has us trapped indoors; if we so much as look out the window, our pictures are plastered all over the internet within minutes.”  
  
“Thus the heavy window covers,” Mycroft finished for him.  
  
“Exactly.” They smiled at each other, and John marvelled at how quickly they’d recovered their ease with one another. _Well. Minus one aspect, that is._ All things considered, John had to admit that he’d accept Mycroft’s affection even if the alien never could bring himself to physical contact again.  
  
Sherlock returned after a few minutes of casual conversation and brushed a hand over Mycroft’s hair before sitting beside John. John smiled at him and squeezed back when Sherlock took his hand, leaning against the alien as he continued the conversation with Mycroft. He thought he’d never been more content than he was in that moment with his extraterrestrial family once again whole.  
  
He was proven wrong when Anthea reappeared to collect Mycroft almost two hours later: The alien hesitated for a moment as he passed by John for the door before he dropped one hand to run across John’s scalp. The wide-eyed grin John gave him in surprise at the action physically hurt his face, but it was entirely worth it for the way Mycroft lost that last bit of blurring around the edges.  
  
The bubbly feeling in John’s chest didn’t fade even after Mycroft and Anthea had gone, and when the noise outside dropped back to its usual level a few minutes later, he grabbed up Sherlock and spun him around, half-giggling in his sheer _relief._ “He doesn’t hate me,” he babbled, ignoring the indulgent smile Sherlock was giving him. “Sherlock, _he doesn’t hate me!”_  
  
“Of course not.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and slowed their twirls. “You’re family; you’re one of us. He just needed to remember that.”  
  
 _I should probably be concerned that I feel most accepted by a completely different species,_ John mused, _but I’m just so damned thankful that I’ve got them._ He looked up at Sherlock’s smile – it had faded from indulgent to something gentler that John didn’t immediately recognise – and very nearly stretched up on his toes to kiss him.

Suddenly extremely aware of how their bodies were pressed flush against each other, John felt his jubilation drain away to make room for cold panic. _What the hell am I doing?! Jesus, John; can’t you control yourself better than this?_ Feeling his face heat and damning the reaction – _Fuck; Sherlock’s going to realise something’s wrong_ – he cleared his throat and stepped away. “I’ll, er, just put on some tea, shall I?” he told Sherlock’s suddenly blanked expression. John had the distinct urge to apologise. _I haven’t – well, yes, I suppose I_ have _done something wrong, but the idea is to keep Sherlock from figuring it out. Apologising won’t help that one bit._   
  
The rationale didn’t help the vague guilt he felt when he turned away and headed for the kitchen, though.

* * *

For the next few days, the atmosphere in the flat varied between jubilance for their improved familial relations, irritation at the constant chanting outside, and a more frustrated (and, on John’s part, paranoid) mood whenever John realised that he was letting his attraction to Sherlock show too clearly. Despite the extremity of emotions they’d experienced over their de facto exile, John and Sherlock had yet to really get into any major conflict with each other. When they were feeling the echoes of contentment from the conversation with Mycroft, they half-danced around each other in the flat and exchanged small grins; when the crowd outside got too intrusive on their thoughts, they sat together on the sofa and watched crap telly with the volume way up; when John pulled away from Sherlock and isolated himself for an hour or two to rebury his attraction, Sherlock accommodated him without comment and greeted his return with a brush against the arm and an offer of tea or food.   
  
Honestly, John marvelled at how well their respective moods lined up; it was almost too good to be true, and if he were any less skilled at reading Sherlock’s body language he might have thought the alien was acting for his benefit. As it was, he could confidently say that they really were just _that_ compatible; the moments where he’d have to repress his attraction for Sherlock came more frequently after that realisation.   
  
That was why it threw John when Sherlock sat beside him on the sofa, looking much more sombre than John was feeling. “What’s the matter?” he asked immediately, turning down the sound on the telly.   
  
Sherlock laced his fingers underneath his chin, still not looking directly at John. “I’ve figured out how to continue the investigation of the faller’s death,” he explained. John blinked, feeling his stomach sink. “We’ll tell Mrs. Hudson that we need to speak with Sebastian about the smuggling case – a sort of follow-up.”   
  
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” John still hadn’t forgotten Mrs. Hudson’s rather effective disappointment. “I know I went along with it before, but you do realise that you’re essentially throwing over your plan to improve relations with the government, right?”   
  
The murmur of the television and the muffled shouts of the protesters were the only sounds for several seconds. Sherlock shivered and sighed. “Yes, I know.”   
  
“So what happened?” John asked, twisting around on the sofa to face Sherlock. “Why is this so important to you? I get that it’s a case, but I thought that the work was just a side bonus for bringing peace. Hell, you even promised Anthea that you wouldn’t go out and solve cases without permission.”   
  
“I know!” Sherlock shuddered violently and shook his head. “I thought that I could give them up for as long as it took – peace _is_ my primary objective, no matter what happens – but I overestimated myself.” He deflated. “I want peace for your planet; I really do. But, these crimes – these puzzles – they’re what really bring me to life, John. It’s my passion. I thought I could give it up, but I was wrong.” The colour of his skin flickered to white for a few seconds, as if he were blinking rapidly.

_There must be something wrong with us – with the human race – if we can force a pacifist to choose between solving a murder and conforming to our diplomatic demands._ “I’m in,” John said, drawing a blanked expression of surprise from Sherlock. “It looks like an ultimatum between solving crimes and getting world peace, but I think we can do both.” _Hell, solving a crime is a step towards world peace in itself, isn’t it? Getting one more murderer off the streets? And, if this turns out to be the break that Mycroft needs to get a foothold on the Black Lotus, we’ll be one step closer to eradicating Moriarty’s influence entirely._ He swallowed, praying that things would turn out for the better just this once, and forced a grin. “So, what’s the plan?”   


* * *

It seemed that luck was on their side for once. The first potential hitch to their plan came when they presented their request to Mrs. Hudson. “Sebastian Wilkes?” she repeated, eyebrow raised. “I remember that whole stint with the smugglers – and I wish you’d warned me that you were dealing with a criminal organisation at the time; I could have put up more precautions against the abductors. But anyway, isn’t it a bit late to be doing a follow-up on that case?”   
  
If the circumstances had been less tense, John would have shaken his head at the sheer oddness of this new Mrs. Hudson. He was still not used to the fact that Mrs. Hudson could legitimately talk about putting up defence against hard-nosed criminals and back it up.   
  
“We’ve been rather understandably busy,” Sherlock drawled. “Now that we’ve got nothing but time, however, we’ve the perfect opportunity to check for any fallout.” He rattled off a list of questions they had to ask Sebastian, including a few security protocols they could personally check on for good measure, and it was a test of John’s acting abilities to not let his eyebrows rise in surprise at each new item. “And, we’ve been stuck in here for weeks, not counting that business with the Met. You know as well as we do that we need to get out, if only for a couple of hours. John will run mad in another few days if he doesn’t leave the flat for a bit.”   
  
“I see,” Mrs. Hudson said when he’d finished, clearly weighing whether Sherlock’s reasons were enough for the risks inherent in them being out in public. “And, would Mr. Sebastian Wilkes be willing to vouch for you?”   
  
John felt both hopeful and wary, his heart stuttering – _Damn it, we can’t get caught this quickly again!_ – but Sherlock merely lifted his nose and sniffed in an alarmingly good imitation of a snooty teenager. “Of course, though I’d warn you that he’ll be rather crabby if you interrupt a meeting to ask.”   
  
“I’ll take that risk,” Mrs. Hudson replied, half-smiling. “Come in; John, you can help yourself to some tea while I call, if you’d like.” She held the door open wider and ushered them into her flat.   
  
_Fuck,_ John thought helplessly as he followed Sherlock to the kitchen table. _She’s going to call, and we’ll be screwed. Again. Any guesses on how much she’ll trust us after this?_ He wondered about the fallout of betraying Mrs. Hudson’s – and by extension, the government’s – trust too many times. He shot Sherlock an anxious look behind Mrs. Hudson’s back, but Sherlock only twitched his shoulders in a shrug and surreptitiously grabbed his hand under the table. It was more soothing than it should have been.

While Mrs. Hudson made the call, John stared blankly at the kettle of tea and tried to go through the motions of preparing himself a cup. “Yes, I’m looking for Mr. Sebastian Wilkes? Of course.” There was a lengthy pause while she was presumably transferred to his desk. “Good morning, Mr. Wilkes. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. I’d just like to verify that you have a meeting with them this afternoon concerning the break-in several months ago?” John realised that he was clenching Sherlock’s hand with enough force to grind the bones together, had he been human; he forced his hand to relax and got an amused look for it. “Thank you; it’s just policy, of course, all things considered. I’ll make sure they arrive on time. You’ll want to alert building security, of course. Two-thirty, was it? Have a good day, Mr. Wilkes.”   
  
_Wait. What?_ John stared at her as she replaced the receiver, not even caring that he was probably gaping. _Did Sebastian actually agree?_ He quickly schooled his features before she turned around.   
  
“I did warn you about the irritability,” Sherlock quipped, looking far more at ease than John felt.   
  
Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. “You did, and you were right,” she agreed. “Sorry for the hassle, boys, but I’m sure you understand why we’re a bit cautious. We really can’t have you disappearing on us.”   
  
“Of course not, Mrs. Hudson,” John managed. He was proud to hear that his own voice remained even. “So, shall we meet down here at a quarter ‘till?”   
  
“You’ll have a car and an escort, of course. You need to be careful while you’re out; we’ll need to come up with some kind of distraction for the crowd while you leave, and some kind of rudimentary disguises for you to wear in public. I’ll have everything arranged for you early this afternoon,” she promised. “You know I’m taking a risk myself by granting you furlough, Sherlock. Please behave.”   
  
Back in the relative privacy of their flat, John shook his head at Sherlock. “You had that all planned, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me that you’d already talked to Sebastian?”   
  
“Because he never responded,” Sherlock replied, shoulders drooping gently in relief. “I sent him an email requesting a meeting with him – I cited all the reasons I gave Mrs. Hudson and made an oblique reference to the case we solved for him, subtly noting the fact that I returned the last part of the payment – but he never replied. I was hoping that I’d given him enough incentive to confirm our story if she called him, but I wasn’t sure he would.”   
  
John considered the unpleasant man’s expression when Sherlock had refused the last check “When you look at it like that, I suppose five grand is worth an alibi,” John agreed. _Maybe this time it’ll all work out,_ he thought. Sherlock still looked uneasy, though, so he tried a distraction: “We’ve got a few hours before we need to leave; why don’t you walk me through the details of our plan again?”   
  
“Fine,” Sherlock agreed after a few seconds. He seemed to shake off the uncertainty, and when he turned to John there was only the confident consulting detective. “The timing is going to be the trickiest part, but here’s the most important thing for you to remember….”   


* * *

Thankfully, Sherlock had planned for the escort when he’d worked out their strategy. John smiled at the bulky man to his right and repeated Sherlock’s instructions in his head to keep calm.   
  
_“Just as we get to Sebastian’s floor, there’s a toilet with two entrances. Mention that you need to stop for a moment and pretend to use the loo; you might subtly drop hints you’re not feeling well when our escorts come to collect us. I’m sure that at least one of the guards will follow you and wait outside the stall, but I can hollow and stretch myself enough to disguise you as the wall. I’ll get you out through the other exit, at which point you’ll move quickly – but not suspiciously – to the end of the hall. I’ll join you as quickly as possible and disguise you as necessary. We might have as much as 10 minutes before anyone gets suspicious, and even then the guards won’t want to cause panic in the building, so there won’t be any overt alarms. Just keep moving.”_

As they stepped into the hall leading to Sebastian’s office, John hesitated and pretended to look embarrassed. “Sorry, but would you mind if we take a moment? I need to – you know.” He thumbed over his shoulder towards the door.   
  
Sherlock huffed. “We’ve got a few minutes,” he commented, acting irritated. “As long as you’re quick about it.”   
  
“Sure, no problem,” one guard said. He led John to the toilet and told the other two guards, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”   
  
The door closed behind them, and John scanned the room. _Two entrances, just like Sherlock said,_ he noted. _Large enough that if I take that stall, the guard won’t be able to see my feet._ John dodged around a few businessmen and stepped into the stall. _Now, to wait for Sherlock._   
  
Only seconds later, John felt the distinctive texture against his wrist; the tendril seemed to grow from the back wall. John let Sherlock tow him back against the wall, where the wall seemed to roll over and absorb him. A few moments after Sherlock covered his face – John assumed that there were tiny pores allowing air in because he could still breathe easily – the bottom of his stomach dropped, and he knew that Sherlock was lifting him over the stall partitions. Sherlock set him down just in the other hall and pulled back when no one was paying attention to the spot.   
  
John’s heart was pounding – _How long before the guard notices I’m gone? How long before Sherlock makes a break for it? Minutes? Seconds?_ – but he honestly couldn’t fight the grin that emerged after having something _interesting_ happen for the first time in what felt like forever. As he made his way to the end of the hall, he marvelled once again how Sherlock’s camouflage could correct for John’s three-dimensional form against two-dimensional surfaces; he really was amazing.   
  
He’d just turned the far corner when the wall – _Sherlock_ – reached out and nudged him towards the stairwell. As soon as the door fell closed behind them, Sherlock reformed and pulled John up the stairs, plunging straight into the explanation. “Based on the injuries to the body and the weather conditions that night, our assassin fell from approximately three floors above Sebastian. That still leaves quite a few offices, but we can narrow it down by eliminating every room more than ten metres from where I believe he was pushed. We’ll start here.” Sherlock rushed John and wrapped around his clothing, instantly transforming him into a slightly over-weight businessman.   
  
Schooling his expression and controlling his breathing rate, John stepped off the landing and into the hall. Sherlock remained relaxed for the most part, allowing John to move them about, but nudged his feet to turn them towards one office in particular. There was no light shining under the door – _The shades are drawn, and it must be empty, or Sherlock wouldn’t send me in._ John brought his hand up to the doorknob and felt Sherlock reach over his knuckles to unlock it. Feeling a faint twinge of guilt through the blaze of residual adrenaline, John stepped inside and locked the door behind them.   
  
Squinting in the dim light, John peered at the placard on the large desk. “Adler, Irene,” he read. “Ring any bells?”   
  
Sherlock slipped off of him and started moving around the room, examining the bookcases and desk. “Not particularly,” he said, voice distant. “I’m not even sure this is the right office. Like I said, there’s a relatively large margin for error.”   
  
“Right.” Glancing over his shoulder at the door, John stepped further in and looked around. “What are we looking for, exactly?”   
  
“Not sure,” Sherlock muttered, heading to the window. “This would be much easier if I knew who was working here that night and who wasn’t.” He pulled the shades, stretched his arms up around the window frame, and slowly moved his hands over every square centimetre. “There are faint scratches on the bottom of the frame,” he reported, “but that’s not necessarily indicative of violence. Could have been almost anything, including normal wear and tear.”

John took to the desk and glanced at the papers he could see. He’d just skimmed the third interoffice memo when he heard a key in the lock. “Sherlock,” he hissed, snapping to attention. The alien swept the shades closed and shoved John against the wall beside the door, flattening to block John from view. John’s pulse thundered in his ears, almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of Adler swinging the door open and stepping inside.   
  
“Hang on; let me lock the door,” she was saying. _American accent,_ John analysed, trying to keep calm. There were two clicks as she locked the door and turned on the light. “How much longer? You told me you’d have me out three days ago.”   
  
Sherlock shifted against him, gently nudging him closer to the doorframe. He abruptly stopped at Adler’s next words: “No, get me out _now._ Security was tighter today than usual; I think they know something.”   
  
Her voice got quieter as she moved away – _toward the window,_ John realized. “I didn’t agree to this,” she hissed. “What happened to ‘low-risk information distribution?’ I was almost _killed!”_   
  
_And, that’s what we came for._ Sherlock apparently agreed, and he started shifting them closer to the door again while Adler paced. “I want out. No more. No – hang on.” John wasn’t expecting Sherlock’s sudden halt this time, and he bumped into the alien before realising his mistake. Adler had stopped moving, but she was shuffling paper. _What – the desk? Oh, hell. I must have moved the papers when I was looking at them, and she’s noticed._   
  
Adler started walking around again; John heard her footsteps get closer and automatically held his breath, feeling Sherlock press him flat against the wall. _Oh shit oh shit oh shit…._ The footsteps stopped directly in front of Sherlock; John could hear Adler breathing past the roaring pulse in his ears. _Don’t reach out don’t reach out for the love of GOD don’t reach out!_   
  
“Sorry, what was that?” Adler said at last, taking a few steps away. Her voice had lost the ire from earlier, but whatever she heard on the phone revived it, distracting her from the inspection of her desk. “Don’t even think about it. I’m done with this; I want out.” Her voice faded a bit as she walked back to the window, and John let out his breath in a silent whoosh. _That was way too close. Let’s get out of here._   
  
They inched to the exit, and Sherlock stretched to cover the door and block it from Adler’s sight. John flipped the lock and slipped out, closing the door behind him and striding down the hall as if he had every right to be there. The wall at his side bulged almost imperceptibly as Sherlock slid under the door and accompanied him back to the stairwell.   
  
“We’ve got our killer?” John asked when Sherlock had reformed in the privacy of the stairwell. “I mean, that conversation was pretty incriminating.” He realised he was bouncing on the balls of his feet and forced himself into stillness.   
  
“It’s certainly enough to warrant a deeper investigation,” Sherlock agreed, but he was more subdued than John. Accordingly, John’s enthusiasm dimmed, and he tilted his head in silent query. “She was looking straight at me,” Sherlock explained. “I did my best to blend with the wall, but I’m worried that she saw me anyway.”   
  
“We’d better get this thing going as quickly as possible, then,” John decided. _We can’t have her running off on us, after all._ Both back in their normal appearances, Sherlock nodded and towed John back to Sebastian’s floor, which their escort had transformed into organised chaos; within seconds of stepping out of the stairwell they were spotted and subdued.   
  
“I’ve got them,” the guard said into a radio. “Area seven; we’ll be down soon.” He glared at them as the other members of their escort – and a few security officers, John noticed; they must have made the security detail of the building very nervous – converged on them. “Come with me.” His tone assured them that the incident was being taken very seriously.

Anthea and Mycroft were waiting for them on the ground floor, and neither looked pleased. “What were you _thinking?!”_ Mycroft hissed before Anthea could even open her mouth. He strode forward and seized Sherlock’s hand almost violently; a half-second later, he whirled on John. “And, you _encouraged_ this?!”   
  
“Mycroft,” Anthea reprimanded, surprisingly; Mycroft backed away, shaking and just barely holding his shape steady. She turned to John and Sherlock and motioned to the government vehicle parked behind her at the kerb. “Get in the car.”   
  
Sherlock exchanged a glance with John, but neither moved. “We’ve got information,” Sherlock said. “A man fell to his death about a week ago; it was ruled suicide, but it was murder. One of the employees here –”   
  
“I don’t care what you found out in this escapade of yours, Sherlock,” Anthea interrupted. “You broke your promise and deliberately misinformed your handler. _Get in the car.”_   
  
There really wasn’t an argument to that, was there? Feeling a bit like a chastised child, John followed Sherlock to the car; Anthea and Mycroft slid into the roomy back seat after him. As the driver pulled into the street, John turned to Anthea. “Listen, Anthea, there’s a good reason for all of this.”   
  
She cut him off before he could explain the realisation he’d come to regarding Sherlock’s crime-solving and the bid for world peace. “I’m sure there is, John,” she snapped, bringing a hand up to press at her temples, “and I’d love to hear it – later. For the love of God, just shut up until we get to Baker Street.”   
  
Stung, John sat back in the seat and stared at her. _She looks insanely stressed,_ he had to admit, noticing the sloppy bun and lack of make-up. Beside him, Sherlock and Mycroft had locked into a fierce mental debate, judging by the frequent tremors that shook each one in turn. Despite the stream of guilt he felt for his part in so much conflict, he was more motivated by anxiety for the time ticking away: Every minute that passed was a minute that Adler could be using to escape their investigation. _She’s our best lead on the Black Lotus; we_ need _to get Mycroft and Sherlock on her trail as quickly as possible!_ By the time they pulled onto Baker Street, John was vibrating almost as much as the two aliens.   
  
The guards opened a path through the protesters, and Mrs. Hudson met them at the door. “Inside,” she ordered, glancing past them at the crowd. She herded them through the entrance, and John automatically led the way to the first floor.   
  
When Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room and shut the door behind her, John began urgently, “You’ve got to move quickly; there’s no telling if she’ll leave or when.”   
  
Anthea closed her eyes and took a long breath in through her nose before sitting in one of the armchairs. “Alright, John,” she said. “Please, explain what you and Sherlock decided was worth breaking our agreement and endangering your credibility.”   
  
_Damn, when you put it that way…_ John grimaced, but Sherlock took over. He explained how he’d realised that the apparent suicide was actually murder and potentially related to the Black Lotus; Mrs. Hudson’s expression turned stormy when he described their plan to fool her, but she remained silent. He explained how they’d slipped their escort and pinpointed Irene Adler’s office and what they’d overheard. “You need to bring her in for questioning and search her office for a connection; obviously, we can’t use the phone conversation in court.”   
  
Mycroft’s head was tilted thoughtfully, but Anthea’s expression darkened. “Sherlock, did it ever occur to you to just _tell me_ about your suspicions?”   
  
Sherlock’s expression blanked in surprise. “You’ve done nothing but disregard our input since we came back from Orkney. And, the police commissioner told me that they couldn’t act on my suggestions because I wasn’t human.”

“The Ministry of Defence slightly outranks the Met, and I’ve let Mycroft come back to work, as you well know.” Anthea reminded him. John felt a sinking sensation. _We screwed up,_ he realised. _Again._ Heedless to the way John was starting to feel sick, Anthea continued, “If you’d told me about it, I could have looked into Irene Adler’s background. Do you trust us so little that you feel you have to break our agreement and work behind my back?”  
  
“We didn’t know whose office it was yet, and it seemed that you didn’t trust us,” Sherlock said lowly. “With the way you resisted Mycroft’s help in your investigations, we thought the only way to get an investigation on the jumper’s death was to do it ourselves.”  
  
 _Hell,_ John thought into the silence that followed. _How did this get so buggered up?_  
  
Anthea sighed and scrubbed her hands over her face, looking exhausted. “Well, I suppose it’s good that we know what you think of us, now, even if I do have to take a small part – a very small part – of the blame. We’ll be sure to take it into account in the future. Don’t worry; we’ll look into Adler. However, I think Mrs. Hudson and I need to make a few changes to your security details. Shall we?” she asked Mrs. Hudson, motioning downstairs.  
  
The two women trekked out of the room, Anthea already pulling out her mobile, and left John with the two Holmes brothers in his sitting room. Mycroft turned to Sherlock, rippling dangerously. “You accuse me of letting humanity’s sense of individualism influence me, but look at what you’ve just done: Instead of asking for help, you decided to go off on your own and try to do everything. Why didn’t you come to me, if nothing else?” John suspected that there was more hurt behind that question than Mycroft’s steady voice implied.  
  
Sherlock stared back at him, skin paled far beyond its normal tone. “I didn’t think through all the consequences,” he admitted. “I was so frustrated with the commissioner that I didn’t even consider another option. I wanted to show him that I was just as good as any human investigator – better, even!” _Yes, exactly,_ John agreed. “But, I should have at least warned you.” He extended a hand to Mycroft. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Mycroft’s hands shifted and twisted for a few seconds in agitation. “Our credibility with the British government is permanently damaged; they won’t forget this incident, no matter what we do,” he pointed out, and for a terrifying moment John was sure that he wouldn’t accept Sherlock’s touch. But then, Mycroft sighed and took Sherlock’s hand, skin settling. “We’re going to have to put a lot of effort into making up for this.”  
  
John let out a breath of relief that Mycroft wasn’t going to hold a grudge against Sherlock, having felt how important this had been to him, but John was more relieved that the equilibrium they’d so recently recovered wasn’t too threatened. He squared his shoulders and admitted, “I’m sorry for my part in this, too, Mycroft.”  
  
The alien looked him over and shook his head. “Yes, well. You should be. Honestly, John; I was counting on you to keep Sherlock in check if he got too far from the realm of acceptable behaviour. Why did you go along with this?”  
  
Wincing at the rebuke, mild though it was, John firmly shoved away the thought, _Because I love him and I don’t want to see him as despondent as he was the moment he realised he couldn’t do anything about a murder in London._ “Because there was a case that needed to be taken care of, and at the time I believed going behind everyone’s backs was the only way Sherlock would be able to address it. If it helps, we were planning to bring it to your attention – and Anthea’s – as soon as we got enough evidence to merit investigation beyond all doubt.”  
  
“I must confess that I manipulated John to go along with it,” Sherlock added. He tapped Mycroft on the hand. “At first, he was reluctant to assist me.”  
  
“I still could have said no,” John reminded him. _You don’t get to take full responsibility for this; I agreed to it._

Mycroft glanced between them and shook his head, half-smiling. “You two are hopeless.” He moved past them, ignoring John’s raised eyebrow, and sat in John’s armchair. “So. Can we all agree to be more open with our actions in the future? No deceiving our guardians, and certainly not each other?”   
  
“Agreed,” John decided, sitting on the sofa across from Mycroft. Sherlock echoed his response and curled up against him. “Anthea’s going to take care of Adler, I suppose; what’s the plan for that, anyway?”   
  
“I’ll try to get in on the case, though it will be difficult,” Mycroft promised. “She might let me look over Adler’s information, even if she doesn’t let me investigate directly. Still, if there’s any connection to criminal activities, I’ll probably be able to find it.”   
  
Sherlock nodded before grimacing. “I can’t really help you without breaking our agreement with Anthea,” he admitted. “I’ll stay put, I suppose. If you find something – anything – on Adler, though, you’re welcome to bring it here. I’ll help you look through it.” The unspoken _‘Please, bring me something to hold my interest and break the monotony!’_ was almost audible.   
  
“I’m sure you can find something to do around the flat while I search,” Mycroft replied, but a moment later he added, “Of course I’ll bring anything I find.”   
  
Anthea and Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, both wearing determined expressions. “We’ve got a few demands,” Anthea said, “and we doubt you’ll like them, but we’re making them anyway.”   
  
Gut sinking, John listened with rising guilt as Anthea outlined a stricter series of restrictions for John and the aliens. _If I’d just stopped Sherlock and held firm, or thought it through a bit more, maybe we’d have been able to avoid this. Then again, perhaps not._ With a sense of resignation, he had to admit that the commissioner’s denial of Sherlock’s credibility had overshadowed his sensibility. When Anthea got to the part about all three of them being placed under complete house arrest – visitors acceptable, but not even John could leave without either Anthea or Mrs. Hudson directly escorting – he balked.   
  
“Wait a minute,” John demanded, shaking his head. “Even you must see that’s excessive. We haven’t broken any laws” – _because the agreement wasn’t technically a law_ – “and, hell, we’ve even landed you a lead in a major case! On what grounds are you putting us all under house arrest?”   
  
“Obviously, it wasn’t enough to merely limit your movements,” Anthea snarled back, clearly at her patience’s end. “Do you think I want to lock you up like animals in a cage? You think it make me feel good? It makes me feel horrible, damn it, but you’re not bloody well leaving me a choice!”   
  
Ire rising in response to hers, John snapped, “You know, I’m sorry that the politics of the situation are bollocksed up. I’m sorry that we didn’t come to you after you bullied us into submission. I’m sorry that it doesn’t make you _feel good_ to take away our rights. But, that still doesn’t justify all…this!” Sherlock placed a calming hand on his shoulder, but John shrugged it off and continued, “I’m a British citizen, no matter what form of aliens I associate with; I have my rights, and you will _not_ take them from me. And, as for them: They’re not human? Fine. But, they are still _humane,_ and for that they deserve to be granted basic human rights.”   
  
“John,” Mycroft interjected; both John and Anthea ignored him.   
  
“Oh, yes,” Anthea laughed bitingly. “Because that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Never mind that _seven billion people_ around the world are watching your every move, and every move of the British government; it’s all about _John._ Did it ever occur to you that I’m doing this to keep you all safe? That I’m keeping you away from the public not just for their safety but for yours? That maybe those ‘rights’ you’re going on about are too dangerous to exercise right now?”   
  
“Anthea,” Mrs. Hudson rebuked gently, but John overrode her, almost spitting in indignation.

“Don’t you think we should have the opportunity to decide for ourselves? When will the time be right? What are we waiting here for? Every single person on Earth to accept them? Because we all know that’s not going to happen, not in our lifetime.”  
  
 _“John.”_ Mycroft reached out with both arms and physically pulled John across the room, cushioning John’s head against his shoulder. “Calm down. Breathe.”  
  
Admittedly, John was having a problem with the last. He’d almost become used to Mycroft avoiding his touch; the sudden contact was enough to shake him and derail his anger. Hesitantly, he brought his arms up and wrapped them around Mycroft’s waist. _It’s not fair,_ he thought, echoing Sherlock’s cry from days before. _None of this is fair. Moriarty’s death, getting kidnapped, our damaged relationship, the Pro-Earthlings and Pro-Aliens outside our flat all day, Anthea’s demands, none of us being able to work: It just keeps piling and piling. When will it ever stop? I want things to go back to the way they were. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good._ Miserably disgusted with the world, John clutched at Mycroft and tried to be thankful that at least this had been restored.  
  
Behind him, John could hear Anthea sucking in deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. Mrs. Hudson was talking in soothing murmurs, but John was too far away to hear her. “Anthea,” Mycroft called over John’s head. “I would respectfully request that I be permitted to assist in Adler’s investigation.” He continued quickly, as if trying to override Anthea’s protest. “I swear to you on behalf of myself, my brother, and Dr. Watson that we have only the best interests of mankind in mind. Even if our methods may fail us, please believe that our intentions are honourable.”  
  
There was a beat of silence, and then Anthea responded in the most tired voice John had heard from her, “Sometimes, intentions just aren’t enough.”  
  
“Give us another chance,” Mycroft pled. “Just once more so that we can prove ourselves. Please.”  
  
 _Shouldn’t have to beg,_ John thought with a flicker of anger, but it did the trick. Mrs. Hudson whispered something to Anthea that was inaudible to John’s ears, but Anthea agreed to let Mycroft work the case under her direct supervision. “What’s one more thing for me to watch over?” she muttered, though without rancour.  
  
It was exhausting and tempers flared again in the hour following, but they finally came to an accord. Anthea and Mrs. Hudson had to admit that the constant stress of the situation and the general mistrust of many officials had become almost unbearable to the three of them, especially considering that John, Mycroft and Sherlock were essentially innocent. Anthea and Mrs. Hudson promised they’d try to provide more distractions, like materials for Sherlock to experiment with and supplies for more elaborate meals. Sherlock and John, for their part, had to acknowledge that they had betrayed the trust of the people with whom they had promised to cooperate, and that truth left a lingering sense of shame in John.  
  
After they’d hammered out the terms of their agreements, Mycroft gave John one last squeeze and joined Anthea by the door. John felt a pang of guilt when he took a minute to really _look_ at Anthea: She had forgone her makeup, and the bags under her eyes stood out in stark contrast to her pale cheeks. The sloppy, half-hearted attempt at a bun only emphasised her exhaustion, and John found himself asking, “Have you slept at all this last week?”  
  
Anthea gave him a wry smile. “A few hours here and there. You lot don’t make it easy.” Even the bite in the reprimand seemed half-hearted. She shook her head and turned towards the door. “Goodbye, John, Sherlock. Please attempt some self-restraint, if at all possible.”

Mrs. Hudson walked them out, and John glanced at Sherlock, who had stood from the couch and was hovering by the doorway to the kitchen. John opened his mouth and shut it when he realised that he had nothing to say. Instead, he just moved to the sofa and collapsed along its length, much like Sherlock did on occasion. _God, I’m tired. I think I understand how Anthea’s feeling; there’s just too much at once to deal with._ He draped an arm over his eyes and poked at the oddly hollow feeling in his chest. _Too many emotions for one sitting,_ he decided, considering the confrontation earlier.   
  
A few minutes later, Sherlock disturbed him with a gentle brush against John’s shoulder. “Tea?” he offered, holding out a cup.   
  
John smiled, feeling his heart lighten a bit, and shoved himself into a sitting position. “Thank you,” he replied, taking the tea. It was just a bit too sweet for his tastes, but Sherlock had still done an excellent job for someone with no sense of taste.   
  
Rather than sit beside him, as John had expected, Sherlock stood in front of John for several more seconds before abruptly swooping down and pecking John on the forehead. John almost dropped his tea.   
  
_What – He just kissed me!_ “Sherlock?” He forced down his immediate reaction (recoiling violently) and the secondary one (kissing back – _Bad idea doesn’t even begin to cover that!_ ) to stare at Sherlock with eyes that were only a bit wider than usual. “What…?”   
  
Shifting and blurring slightly, Sherlock explained, “I thought – You kissed me, before; I thought it was a way to comfort you. I – Sorry. I’ll be in my room.” He turned to slip past John, features almost unrecognisable, but John managed to snag his arm.   
  
“Wait,” John requested, forcing himself to remain calm. “When did I kiss you?” _Let’s start with the easy part; we’ll work up to why kissing your flatmate is a complicated thing later._   
  
Almost hesitantly, Sherlock let John pull him to the sofa. “Just before you were kidnapped,” he said. “After I – hit you. You kissed me and told me you would come back.”   
  
_Oh, hell. I did, didn’t I? Should have known it wouldn’t be so easy to brush that off._ “Okay.” John took a breath to compose himself and plan his explanation. “First: That was a mistake on my part.” _No matter how much I wish it didn’t have to be._ “I shouldn’t have kissed you, and I apologise.” The arm in John’s grip twitched and reformed so that Sherlock was holding John’s hand. “Kissing is primarily a romantic gesture for humans who aren’t related, as I’m sure you’re aware by now, though it is also used as a sign of affection between family members.”   
  
Sherlock flinched and paled, probably taking John’s words as a sign of rejection. John hurried to reassure him. “Look, Sherlock. What we do in the privacy of our own home is our own business, but you have to understand that in our culture, kissing between two adults who aren’t romantically involved, even relations, can be socially fraught. I shouldn’t have kissed you, innocent as it was, because that’s a habit that could get complicated over time.”   
  
“So, we shouldn’t kiss each other,” Sherlock summarised, thankfully taking John’s words at face value. “What about hugging?”   
  
“You need physical contact to stay sane. Even though it’s not the norm for two grown men, it’s alright.” Sherlock didn’t look convinced, so John added, “It’s okay. I like it.” _Perhaps a bit more than I should._   
  
Sherlock nodded and wrapped John a bit more firmly in his arms. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to say any more, John picked up the remote and turned on a television show that neither of them watched. Eventually, John noticed that Sherlock had steadily been devolving into a blob around him and relaxed into the gentle shift and press of Sherlock’s alien form against his own. He didn’t even register the slow slide into sleep.   


* * *

Anthea had an impressively fast turnaround rate, John admitted the next morning when she and Mycroft showed up just before noon with several heavy files in hand. “Come on in,” he said, stepping aside and peering down at the box in Mycroft’s arms. “Is all that information on Irene Adler?”

“And the company she works for,” Anthea confirmed, glancing around the room. “Where’s Sherlock?”  
  
“Experimenting in the washroom,” John replied absently, flipping through the top file. At the very loud silence that followed, he glanced up and rolled his eyes. “We covered safety and sanitation a long time ago; don’t worry. I’ll go get him.”  
  
“Please do,” Anthea replied, sounding more than a bit worried. John grinned, in a much better mood after a full night’s sleep with Sherlock at his side – _So much for my adherence to social convention_ – and took the file with him to retrieve Sherlock.  
  
“Mycroft and Anthea are here with information on Adler,” he told the web of alien strung up around the room. Sherlock had been at work from almost the moment John woke, muttering something about various moulds; John saw at least six different containers scattered throughout the room and was sure that several more were hidden from direct view. “How’s the experiment going?” he asked while Sherlock reformed.  
  
“Predictably,” Sherlock drawled. He motioned to the file in John’s hand. “Is that the information?”  
  
“Yeah; they brought a box of them,” John said, handing the file over and stepping back to let Sherlock pass. He followed the alien to the sitting room where Mycroft had settled in and spread the files over the available surfaces. Sherlock grinned, already running a hand over the papers in the file John had given him, and gave Anthea only a brief nod before devolving into a puddle and surging over the files.  
  
Anthea flinched slightly in surprise, and John moved to her side to mutter, “Alright?”  
  
“Mycroft’s never done that in front of me,” she explained, watching as Mycroft smoothly shifted into his natural form. “Well, before now. Mrs. Hudson described it to me, but I wasn’t really prepared.” She shook her head, already regaining her mental footing. “They just seem so _human_ most of the time that it threw me.”  
  
John nodded. “That’s because they basically are human, emotionally. But, I know what you mean.” He gave her a quick once-over and smiled. “You’re looking a lot better today,” he commented. At her half-amused look, he explained, “Less stressed.”  
  
She hummed in agreement. “So far, today’s gone a lot better than yesterday. Did you know that Mycroft can cook? He made breakfast for me this morning.”  
  
“Eggs, toast, orange juice and coffee?” John guessed, remembering his first breakfast at Mycroft’s.  
  
“Eggs, toast, orange juice and coffee,” Anthea confirmed, leaning back against the wall and watching the aliens. “It was actually pretty good, too. Makes me wonder if my mother had that same sense of worried ‘Am I going to be food-poisoned with this?’ when I made her breakfast in bed as a child, though.”  
  
John barked a laugh and fell silent, watching the aliens twine together over the papers. Grey and pink blurred together as they peered past each other’s edges at particular pages and conversed about what they’d found. Or, so John assumed. For all he knew, it could have been a particularly outrageous dance, but he rather doubted it.  
  
“So, perhaps you can explain something for me,” Anthea said, nodding at the aliens. “I’ve noticed Mycroft shivering sometimes when it wasn’t cold at all. Do they have lower body temperatures? I’ve tried turning up the heat a bit in the flat, but he’ll still shake sometimes.” John’s expression must have showed his surprise because she added, “I’ve offered to turn up the heat, but he just shakes his head and ignores me.”  
  
 _Right. Alien body language and human body language aren’t compatible; stupid, John, to not think about warning her beyond that information dump right after getting back from Orkney. You and Sherlock have the same problem!_ “It’s not because he’s cold,” he told her, wondering idly whether the aliens were ignoring them completely or just choosing to let him explain as the human link. “I think we’ve talked about this a bit before, but it’s to do with their body language.” He explained how shivering and rippling signified anger, adding, “If they get really furious or frustrated, they tend to devolve into a bunch of flailing limbs, but I’ve only seen Mycroft do that once and Sherlock twice.” _And, the second one ended with me flat on my back. Ouch._

Anthea was staring at him openly now. “What else?” she prompted.   
  
And so, while Mycroft and Sherlock examined Adler’s background on the sitting room floor, John told Anthea all he knew about their body language and culture. At some point, Mrs. Hudson wandered up from downstairs and joined Anthea beside John. John was debating whether to tell them about the aliens’ dance when both aliens suddenly froze before jerking upright, Mycroft speaking almost before his mouth had even formed.   
  
“We’ve got it,” he said, grabbing the relevant papers. “She was part of a rival crime organisation; the numbers here don’t add up for an average trading company. If we trace the trading company, we’ll be able to track down the other arms of the organisation.”   
  
“And, the so-called suicide was an assassin for the Black Lotus,” Sherlock added. “He climbed the side of the building, intending to kill Adler. She’s an information hound for her organisation, and she’d gathered and correlated the information that led to the Black Lotus’ operatives being murdered in China. Adler figured out that the Black Lotus was going to come after her, somehow, and so she was prepared when the assassin tried to enter the window. She surprised him and pushed him, in what was essentially self-defense; he lost his grip and fell to his death.”   
  
“With that kind incident hanging over her head, she’ll certainly have disappeared by now,” Mycroft pointed out. “If we’re going to have any chance of catching her, we need to search her flat and office; get me as much information on her relatives and friends as you can, and set up a watch on the CTV networks. We need to move quickly.”   
  
“No,” Anthea interjected. _“I_ need to move quickly.” John whipped his head around at the sudden change from her previously pleasant demeanour to the hard voice. “You asked me to give you a chance to prove yourself, and I did. You’ve done wonderfully; don’t misunderstand me, but now we need to verify what you’ve told us and carry on from there.” She nodded to John, grimacing at his incredulous expression, and thanked him for the information about the aliens’ culture. “Come on, Mycroft; I’ll order the investigation in the car.”   
  
“Can you not see that I’m trying to help you?” Mycroft asked, pacing after her as she walked out the door. John saw his skin ripple in violent shudders. He continued down the stairs: “Sherlock and I could have this entire case solved and wrapped up in a day – hours, even – if you’d just let us help!”   
  
The front door closed on Anthea’s response, and John turned his shocked gaze to Sherlock. “Anthea…” _was being so amicable; what happened?_   
  
Sherlock shook his head, shoulders drooping. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, sounding and looking defeated. “It is how it is.”   
  
“You two _solved a case_ for her! Why is she… How can she…?” John shook his head and made an inarticulate sound of frustration.   
  
Mrs. Hudson sighed and patted John on the shoulder. “Anthea is stuck between two opposing forces,” she explained. “She wants to believe the best of you, but she’s got the worst of your opponents whispering in her other ear all day long. When you pull something like that escape at the bank the other day, it makes it harder for her to look past the others’ censure. And, it reminds her that Sherlock and Mycroft have superhuman abilities, and that kind of power scares her, just like it does so many other people. Just stay focused and show her your best sides. You can bring her around; I’m confident in you.” She winked and turned to head back downstairs. “I’ll work on her as much as I can,” she promised. “You’ve done a good job with Miss Adler; I think it’ll bring a lot of other things about Moriarty’s organisation into focus.”

Somehow, the speech was both depressing and buoying. A few moments after the door shut behind Mrs. Hudson, John shook his head and forced his irritation and disappointment down to focus on the positive. “So,” he said, smiling at Sherlock, “did you want some help with those mould experiments?”   


* * *

“…still have no information on when, or even if, the aliens will appear in person before the public. In other news, police forces across the nation are celebrating the successful take-down of a major crime organisation originally centred in London. Officials are crediting an anonymous source for the information leading to the hundreds of arrests, one of the biggest take-downs in – ”   
  
_Click._   
  
Beside John, Sherlock’s lips twitched up into a small grin. “I have to admit that I’m impressed Adler has been able to avoid the entirety of the UK police force,” he commented.   
  
“Even if the anonymous source is her and not you or Mycroft?” John teased. Well, mostly. He was a bit sore about it on their behalf, if he were being honest.   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and nudged John playfully. “Yes, even then,” he groused. “She must have figured out that someone was in the office with her that day and decided to oust the organisation rather than entrust her safety to its dubious care. It took cunning and determination; I can admire that.”   
  
_Okay, why the hell am I getting jealous of a wanted criminal? Come on, John._ Onscreen, a reporter interviewed one of the arresting officers in Yorkshire, who was describing the difficulties in performing a strike of that size. _This would have been so much easier if they’d just let Mycroft coordinate,_ he mused, turning the telly off. Outside, the protestors were just as irritatingly loud as ever. So far, neither interest nor concern seemed to be waning in the slightest. _God, get a life, would you?_   
  
“John?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head. John realised that he was gritting his teeth and forced himself to relax. “We helped bring down a major criminal organisation. Let’s just leave well enough alone this time and call it a good job, alright?”   
  
_It wasn’t a good job: We’ve managed to make a mess of Anthea’s trust; we nearly botched up an investigation; even after finding the link between Adler and the organisation, Anthea isn’t letting Mycroft work freely; Mycroft could probably bring down most, if not all, of Moriarty’s syndicate if we’d just_ let _him; Anthea – and by extension, the British government – doesn’t trust us; the protestors are so constant that I’m almost starting to forget they’re there; I still haven’t got myself under control and god, how I want to kiss you and hold you tight and pretend this isn’t happening._   
  
Sherlock brushed a hand over John’s hair, peering into his eyes worriedly. “John?”   
  
John sucked in a breath and let it out. _But, none of that’s important right now. We’ll just have to take this moment by moment._ “Alright.”


	12. Mutual Weirdness

John glared balefully at the mobile where it lay on the table. As he watched, the screen briefly went dark before lighting up with another incoming call. He’d only made the mistake of answering the first two; after listening to raging abuse and raging adoration, respectively, he’d silenced the phone and watched the calls come in.   
  
“Why haven’t you just turned it off?” Sherlock asked, leaning over John’s shoulder. John glanced back to see that Sherlock hadn’t completely abandoned his natural form: He’d formed a large tendril into a human torso and head, but the bottom part of his body was still stretched into his bedroom.   
  
“Morbid curiosity, I suppose,” John replied. “I’m wondering how long it will take for the voicemail and text inbox to fill up.” _Not very long at this rate._ “Do you think it’ll last until lunchtime?”   
  
Sherlock tilted his head and watched the _‘Missed Calls’_ number rise on John’s phone. “No.” In the few seconds of silence, John’s phone lit up with another phone call and eight texts. “John, just turn off your phone,” Sherlock demanded. “It’s making you tense.”   
  
_I’ve just had my privacy violated by some arse who spread my phone number. I think I’ve got the right to be tense._ John forced his shoulders down from their semi-hunched position and sighed, picking up the mobile. “Alright, are you happy?” he asked as he hit the power button.   
  
Smiling in the face of John’s irritation, Sherlock said, “Very.” He brushed a newly-formed hand over John’s neck before it dissolved back into a tendril that draped over John’s shoulders.   
  
“You make it hard to carry on a good snit,” John complained, feeling his frustrations fade under Sherlock’s reassuring touch. “I was gearing up for a really good one, too.” Sherlock twitched and tapped him on the cheek in response. “Fine; alright! I’ll be optimistic,” he promised. It was apparently good enough for Sherlock, who split off a tiny tendril and turned on a bit of music to drown out the protestors’ enthusiastic cries.   


* * *

In the interests of expediency, Mycroft’s biweekly visits to reconnect with Sherlock always coincided with Anthea’s meetings with Mrs. Hudson. So, when Mycroft appeared alone behind John in the kitchen without traversing the entranceway downstairs, John half-wondered if Mycroft had broken out and snuck over. “Where’s Anthea?” John asked with a raised eyebrow.   
  
“Busy,” Mycroft replied. “She didn’t have anything specific to talk to Mrs. Hudson about, and I had a question for you, so she agreed to drop me off under Mrs. Hudson’s care for the afternoon. It was easier for me to slip in through the window on the side of the building than brave the crowd out front.”   
  
Ignoring the latter part, John focused on the bit that had stuck out. “A question for _me?” Not Sherlock?_   
  
He walked past John, ignoring the increasingly confused look on John’s face, and turned toward the stairwell. “I’ll be back in a few minutes; I just need to check in with Mrs. Hudson downstairs.”   
  
John took advantage of the interim to finish his tea and collect Sherlock from his bedroom. They were waiting in the sitting room when Mycroft reappeared: John fidgeted on the sofa while Sherlock paced behind him. Mycroft reached past John’s shoulder, bare arm resting briefly against the side of John’s neck, and clasped Sherlock’s hand.   
  
John tried not to lean into the tiny point of contact and forced a smile for Mycroft. “So, what’s your question?”

Mycroft blurred, catching John’s curious attention. “It’s about Anthea.” He twitched and said, “I’ve researched various forms of courtship in your culture – both English and otherwise – but I must admit that I’m at a loss.” John stared, incredulously wondering if he was interpreting Mycroft’s intent correctly. “My situation, you see, is a bit unusual…and I felt that the only sources which related to interspecies romantic relations were probably unsuited even to my case.”   
  
Resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder and check Sherlock’s take on the situation, John raised his eyebrows. “Mycroft, you can’t date Anthea.” He shook his head, feeling dazed. “It won’t work,” he said. “You’re two different species. I – does dating even work the same way on your planet?” Before Mycroft could reply, John waved the question away. “Never mind; not important. There are so many problems with this that I don’t even know where to start.”   
  
The baritone behind his back startled him into a quickly suppressed flinch. “We’re all consenting adults,” Sherlock reminded him. “Everything else can be negotiated, can’t it?”   
  
_Oh, that’s way too close to home._ “It might be different on your planet, but there are thousands – millions, even – of intricate rituals surrounding romance for us. Some of them can be bent or broken, yes, but most of them are so deeply ingrained in our culture that you’d constantly be forced to watch yourself to make sure you don’t offend her. And, that’s not even considering the romantic rituals of your species that she’d have to worry about.” _I’m not even going to touch the matter of sex._ “In the long term, shared experiences and core values are at the heart of any good relationship, but you and Anthea aren’t even from the same solar system.”   
  
Mycroft tilted his head. “Does that make so much of a difference? We’ve got shared experiences – we’ve been working together for a year. Are our core values really any different? Aren’t we all working toward the same goals of peace? What sets us apart?” He shifted abruptly, face deforming into something vaguely horrifying and grotesque. “Our physical features? I thought your modern culture prided itself on looking past the appearance to see the potential within.”   
  
John glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who merely stared back at him over Mycroft’s arm. _No help from that quarter._ “True,” John acknowledged as he turned back to Mycroft, “but you come from a completely different cultural background. Even humans have problems with that – sure, plenty of intercultural marriages succeed, but plenty fail, too. Somehow, I’m guessing that the interspecies gap will be even worse.”   
  
“Fair enough,” Mycroft agreed, features reforming, “but there are similar issues in just a basic social sense: Would you suggest that we aren’t even capable of forgiving each other’s trespasses enough to be friends?”   
  
“Well, no, but – ”   
  
“How is this any different? We still have to make concessions for each other and have a bit more patience than we would for another of our species. I have come to admire her greatly for her stability in this chaotic time and her efficiency in dealing with such an unusual situation. While I don’t agree with several of her choices, she has shown compassion for our plight and a strong desire to bring this to a fair conclusion for all parties involved. Since our last visit, she’s even agreed to bring me in on several cases related to Moriarty!” He shrugged. “What are a few more compromises in exchange for love?”   
  
John winced at the word and bowed his head, trying to sort through his own feelings on the matter. _It’s not that I want to discourage love – God, no – but perhaps the expression of it? Hell, I’ve more-or-less come to terms with my attraction to Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean I can just go about shouting it out to the world. Quite the opposite, really._ “I think you need to put more thought into the consequences if you and Anthea don’t work out.”   
  
Behind him, Sherlock snorted. “Think about who you’re talking to. He’s considered it thoroughly in his usual minute detail.”

“I’ve decided that the risk is acceptable, if we take the appropriate precautions,” Mycroft confirmed. He sighed. “John, you’re not going to change my mind about this; I didn’t come to you for your blessing. I’d like it, but I don’t require it. I came to you for advice on how to proceed, seeing how you’ve got the best insight into the matter.”  
  
 _Oh._ John hesitated and licked his lips. _He really hasn’t got anyone else to go to, has he? I’m the only human – besides Anthea – that he’s comfortable with. What kind of damage would he do to their relationship if he just goes forward blindly?_ Even if John disapproved of a romantic relationship between the two, they did seem to be at least approaching friendship. _It’s not as though Anthea’s had time for a social life beyond Mycroft lately, what with the house-arrest._ Resigned, he nodded. “I’ll help.”  
  
“Thank you,” Mycroft said, finally releasing Sherlock and bringing his extended hand to rest in John’s hair. “I appreciate it.” Abruptly, he sagged at the shoulders and blurred heavily. “Frankly, I haven’t the slightest idea where to start.”  
  
“Do you have any idea whether she’ll be open to your advances? We all know how diplomatic you are, but it would be disastrous if you moved in too quickly.”  
  
Mycroft shook his head. “She’s been much warmer to me in the last few days than when we first returned from Orkney, but I’d hesitate to assume that it’s a sign of growing affection rather than mere adjustment to the situation.”  
  
“Okay, we can work with that.” John ran him through basic dating etiquette, mildly adjusted to account for the inherent oddness of the situation, and outlined a brief plan for Mycroft to follow in making his intentions toward Anthea clear without coming across too strongly. Partway through, he mentioned, “Of course, you’ll need to introduce her to the aspects of your species that she needs to be aware of.” A thought occurred to him. “Have you been touching her at all?” he asked. “Like you do with me, I mean.”  
  
“Not very often,” Mycroft replied. “I try to avoid imposing myself.”  
  
“Right.” John nodded. “So, you’ll need to start doing that. Nothing too familiar, of course; just enough to get her accustomed to your skin texture and to touching you in general. If this is going to have any chance of working, she’ll need to be able to adjust to your needs as well – it can’t be completely one-sided, or you’ll eventually feel resentful and it’ll fall apart.”  
  
Mycroft agreed, “Probably true.”  
  
“Just keep it casual until she’s used to it,” John decided. “I’m sure you’ll have to make it more obvious later, considering how Anthea will probably chalk it up to your innate need for contact.” He nodded at Sherlock. “The level of contact we’ve got is far above the norm for humanity, for example, but it’s purely platonic between us.” _More or less._  
  
Sherlock tilted his head back against the seat of the couch, closed his eyes and whited out his skin, obviously ignoring the rest of the discussion. John patched together a few more suggestions for Mycroft to follow – the most important being the clichéd, “Be yourself around her; don’t try to act like what you think she wants. If she can’t fall in love with you for yourself, you’ve got no chance.” The process took well over an hour, but at the end John felt as though he’d given Mycroft the best advice he could offer under the circumstances.  
  
“Thank you, John,” Mycroft said at the conclusion. “I don’t know how I would have got on without your help.”  
  
“Yeah,” John sighed, reaching back to drag a hand down Sherlock’s bleached hair in a signal that they’d finished the conversation. “It’s fine. Just, be careful, alright?” As Sherlock stirred beside him and regained his usual colouring, John continued, “I don’t want to nurse you through a broken heart if this doesn’t go well.”  
  
Humming, Mycroft stretched an arm out to Sherlock, who took it and rippled gently. “I will do my best,” he promised. “It’s safe to say that I’m invested in a positive outcome.”

_You don’t have to make it sound like a business deal,_ John thought wryly as he escorted Mycroft downstairs. Mrs. Hudson greeted them and called Anthea to pick Mycroft up. “So, Mycroft,” she said after hanging up. “I haven’t had the chance to spend any time with you. If you’re not busy, why don’t you stay and give me your side of the story?”   
  
Mycroft blinked, expression set in a perfect example of bemusement, and shrugged. “I’d be delighted,” he replied, waving John off. “What would you like to know?”   
  
As John returned upstairs, he heard Mrs. Hudson’s prompt over the protestors’ chants outside: “Sherlock has told me a bit about your home planet, but I’d love to hear your take on the differences between our cultures.” John was tempted to stay with Mycroft and listen in, but he realised that Sherlock hadn’t moved from the sofa even when John and Mycroft had left. _I should make sure he’s alright; besides, I can always ask him about it later._   
  
Sherlock was tapping at his mobile when John came in. “I’m on the line with the phone company,” he announced without looking up. “They’ve promised to change our numbers as quickly as possible.”   
  
“That’s good.” John tilted his head, noting the slight blurring around Sherlock’s features. “You alright?”   
  
“Hm? Oh.” Sherlock set his mobile on the table and turned his face to John. “As well as can be expected.”   
  
_That’s not the same as a ‘yes.’_ John crossed the room and sat beside Sherlock, noting that the blurring he’d noticed earlier was caused by minute vibrations instead of Sherlock’s usual fear response. “Do you want to talk about it?”   
  
The hand that grasped John’s own wasn’t unexpected, but the tendril that came up to trace the shell of his ear was. Shuddering at the tender touch and the twinge of repressed arousal it caused, John twitched and turned his gaze to the wall behind Sherlock. Sherlock held the position for a few seconds before withdrawing both appendages with a heavier ripple. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I do.” His mobile rang out with the tinny voice of an operator, and Sherlock picked it up. “Yes, I’m here,” he told the representative, attention drifting away from John.   
  
Feeling his stomach clench as though he’d made a horrible error in judgement, John turned from Sherlock and grabbed his empty tea mug. He could feel Sherlock watching him behind his back, and his shoulders tensed in reaction as he washed the dish. _It was just a friendly touch,_ he scolded himself. _You’re overreacting because of the discussion with Mycroft. Don’t project your emotions onto Sherlock; that’s not fair to either of you._   
  
Still, even after he had put away the mug and turned on the news to see if the reporters were finally moving beyond the continuing scandal of alien life, John felt a niggling doubt in the back of his mind: _If Mycroft can find it in himself to love a human, why couldn’t Sherlock? If Mycroft can be brave enough to try a relationship with an alien – to him – why can’t I?_   
  
The heavy weight of Sherlock’s attention on him didn’t make it any better.   


* * *

Long after Sherlock had finished changing his number (and John’s) and Mycroft had departed with Anthea (John heard the door open and close on the shouts of the protestors), the sitting room remained hostage to the awkward silence between them. The reporters were still as obsessed about Sherlock, John, and Mycroft as always, regardless of which channel John flipped to – several had even brought in scientists to speculate on the aliens’ genetic makeup. Just as he was about to give up and turn the telly off, the newscaster on BBC News blinked and changed the topic.   
  
“This just in: The _Mona Lisa_ has been stolen!” The newscaster looked behind the camera, as if she were asking whether the report was a joke. “Officials at the Louvre report that it disappeared at approximately two in the afternoon today, and they’ve scheduled a press conference later today. Tune in at five o’clock for our live coverage.”   
  
“Quite the momentous event,” Sherlock commented. “The _Mona Lisa_ isn’t an easy theft. When was it last stolen? 1911?”   
  
“Something like that,” John agreed. “I wonder who did it.” He tilted his head. “Especially during the museum’s daylight hours. How did nobody notice?”

Sherlock huffed and twisted over the table to sit draped over John and watch the newscaster. “While I’d usually be the first to accuse humanity of being unobservant, even I have to admit that somebody should have seen something happen. The thieves must have planned this out very well.”   
  
John hummed in agreement. “If nothing else, it’s overshadowed you and Mycroft – even if it was only for a few minutes.” _It seems insane to think that even the theft of the_ Mona Lisa _is less interesting than my flatmate, but I suppose it’s understandable in context._ “That’s a start.”   
  
“Indeed.” Sherlock devolved into a blob and wrapped himself around John’s shoulders where he rested while John flipped the channel to a game show.   


* * *

When five o’clock rolled around, John settled in with Sherlock and the simple tacos Sherlock had made for his dinner. Sherlock leaned against him in humanoid form and watched him eat – it was so casual and unobtrusive that John almost didn’t notice. John blinked halfway through his second taco and glanced up with an inquisitive eyebrow, but Sherlock shrugged and turned his face toward the telly. John continued eating, but he remained hyperaware of the dark hair angled perfectly to watch his movements.   
  
After the opening jingle for the news show and the introduction of the story, the newscaster turned it over to a reporter standing in a conference room in the Louvre. “Good evening,” the reporter translated for the woman at the podium. “My name is Pauline du Bois. As the curator for the collection, I’d like to begin by confirming the report we gave earlier today: The _Mona Lisa_ was stolen at approximately two o’clock this afternoon. Further, we’ve confirmed that the thief was one Arsene Lupin, a thief well-known to many in the fine-arts community.”   
  
John nearly choked on his next bite as he whipped his head up to stare at the screen. _“Arsene Lupin?!”_ he gasped. He shook his head, swallowing painfully past the scrapes in his throat. _He stole the_ Mona Lisa _unassisted? Jesus. Unbelievable._   
  
Beside him, Sherlock unfroze from his shock and tilted his head, entire body oriented intently on the reporter’s words. “Incredible. One human stole a painting of that renown – in broad daylight?”   
  
Almost feeling jealous of Lupin, John glanced at Sherlock but had to admit that he was impressed, too. He returned his attention to the reporter’s translation.   
  
“It is to my greatest regret that I must admit that Lupin warned us of this event. The Louvre received a note several days ago requesting that we set out the portrait for Lupin to collect, else he would take it by force.” _That’s impossible. They knew he was coming, and he_ still _got away with the painting?_ She looked chagrined enough that John believed it, though. “I’d like to end with a request to Monsieur Lupin: Please, take all possible care to avoid damage to the painting. Even if you never return it, I beg of you to please keep it in as pristine condition as it was when you took it. Thank you. I’ll take any questions you have, now.”   
  
Predictably, the crowd erupted into noise; figuring that the most important bits would show up with complete translations on the website soon enough, John flipped the telly off and twisted to regard Sherlock. “Well?” he prompted. “What do you think?”   
  
“I think that Lupin is a far better thief than I’d originally believed,” Sherlock replied, lacing his fingers together under his chin and staring at the blank screen. “A master of disguise, certainly; but that wouldn’t have been enough to walk out of one of the most secure museums in the world with the _Mona Lisa._ It’s incredible, really, except that he’s done it.”   
  
John nodded. “And, it’s distracted the media from you and Mycroft – at least for a little while.” He shrugged. “It’s a start.”   


* * *

It was more of a start than John had realised: Less than a week later, Anthea and Mycroft walked into the flat looking positively gleeful. “We’ve got a lead,” Mycroft announced, brandishing a file at them. “It’s the Assurance d’Art International insurance company!”   
  
John exchanged a bemused glance with Mrs. Hudson, who had followed Anthea in, while Sherlock grabbed Mycroft’s hand and downloaded the information. “Pardon?” John asked.

“The Assurance d’Art International is the Louvre’s insurance company; it has ties to the Black Lotus,” Anthea explained. “Lupin’s theft led Mycroft to look into the company’s usual response to art theft; he was analysing the tactic most likely to succeed in getting the portrait back from Lupin. Instead, we found a pattern: Almost all of the art pieces stolen within the last ten years that were paid out and _not_ investigated were sold on the black market through the same channels used by the Black Lotus.”  
  
Sherlock cut in, releasing Mycroft and grabbing the file from his hand. “That means that someone – or, more likely, several someones – were keeping an eye on the Black Lotus and covering for their activities. The art pieces sold for an average of ₤700,000, more than enough to afford a cut to the inside men.” He looked up, face stretched unnaturally in a too-wide grin. “Whoever oversaw all of these decisions was in on it. They were paid off by the Black Lotus.”  
  
“Exactly,” Anthea said. “Mycroft and I are the closest to experts we’ve got on the Black Lotus, so I’m trying to get an investigation running in coordination with the French government.” She brushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear and grimaced. “Unfortunately, Britain’s relationships with other countries is a bit strained at the moment; everybody wants access to our aliens, but it’s just not safe right now.”  
  
“Sorry?” John interrupted. “‘ _Our_ aliens?’ You are aware that they don’t actually belong to us, aren’t you?”  
  
Anthea blinked at him. “Of course, but they are our responsibility. We can’t just send them off to another country unprotected.”  
  
John glanced at Sherlock and Mycroft. “They hardly need to be protected,” he commented dryly. “They’re virtually indestructible.”  
  
“Physically, yes,” Anthea replied, “but not politically. If they travel to assist one country, then they’ll have to avail themselves to all of the countries or risk showing favouritism.” She shrugged. “If that means that we have to portray ourselves as the bad guy, keeping the aliens all to ourselves, then so be it; I’d rather have international tension than international war because Sherlock and Mycroft can’t be everywhere at once.”  
  
 _That is a good point,_ John acknowledged. “Still, it’s not your right to decide that for them. Maybe if you just remember to consult them before deciding who gets the honour of their presence?” He shook his head and changed the subject. “Will the French government at least give you access to the company’s personnel records? You have to have some sort of evidence to investigate.”  
  
“They can get the personnel records,” Mrs. Hudson interjected, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean that they’ll be able to figure out the responsible parties. Personality is extremely important, and that doesn’t show up in personnel files. They have to be allowed some sort of interview with the personnel.”  
  
 _That does make it harder._ “So, what are you going to do?” John pressed.  
  
Anthea sighed, the excitement from earlier all but disappeared, and told them that she would wait until the alien frenzy died down a bit. “I doubt the Black Lotus is going anywhere, and it’s not as though I’ve actually had a chance to scare them off,” she admitted bitterly.  
  
Although the jubilance from earlier was tempered with the knowledge that they couldn’t _do_ anything with the information, Mrs. Hudson changed the topic to Mrs. Turner’s reaction to the prime minister’s address – “There _are_ little green men from Mars?!” – and lightened the atmosphere considerably. After several minutes of idle chatter while Sherlock and Mycroft soaked in each other’s touch, Anthea tilted her head at Mycroft with a soft smile and led him back out the door.  
  
John saw them out before returning upstairs to the cheers and hisses of the crowd, details from the conversation running through his head. His lip curled in distaste.  
  
Sherlock tilted his head at John’s expression when John passed him on the way to the kitchen and brushed a hand against John’s neck. “Alright?” he muttered. John nodded tightly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re not. Are you upset about Black Lotus?”

_No, I’m upset because I feel like we’re dehumanising you and Mycroft. I understand that you two are valuable resources to our planet right now, but it still doesn’t feel right._ Deciding to keep that part to himself, John said, “A bit, but Anthea’s right: Now that we have the connection, we’ll be able to get them later when things aren’t quite as hectic.” He glanced over his shoulder at the shades drawn across the windows, blocking the view of the surely-colourful protestors outside. “Eventually.”   
  
The hand against his neck towed him around to face Sherlock again; Sherlock sighed and pulled John into a hug. “It’ll be alright,” Sherlock promised. “Everything will work out.”   


* * *

Not three days after Mycroft and Anthea had found the connection between the Assurance d’Art International Insurance Company and the Black Lotus, Arsene Lupin sent a second warning note to Assurance d’Art International, this time demanding Sherlock’s presence. As John and Sherlock watched the news, the translated note scrolled down the screen:   
  
_My Dear Patrons in the Louvre,  
  
Worry not; the_ Mona Lisa _is safe and looking as lovely as ever. Thank you for your kind donation and the entertaining game when I visited your establishment! I’ll take good care of my prize. In fact, I had so much fun that I believe I’ll come and play again.  
  
I find my attention frequently returning to a single painting in your collection: Robera’s_ Club-Footed Boy. _While your amusing attempts at retaining the_ Mona Lisa _were quite educational, please don’t trouble yourself further. It’s not worth your time. However, I would consider myself flattered should you invite the one being on this planet that could possibly give me a challenge: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Wouldn’t that be the game of a lifetime? You have exactly two weeks, at which time I will liberate the_ Club-Footed Boy. _  
  
Eagerly awaiting the date,  
Arsene Lupin._   
  
John tilted his head at the screen. “The _Club-Footed Boy_ ? I’ve never even heard of it. Why would Lupin bother with some unknown painting after stealing the _Mona Lisa_ ?”   
  
Sherlock had already stolen John’s laptop and run a search for information on the painting. “The _Club-Footed Boy: ‘Le Pied-bot’_ in French, painted by Jusepe de Ribera in 1642.” He tilted his head and stared at a picture online. “A beggar holding his crutch and a paper reading, _‘Da mihi elimo sinam propter amorem dei’:_ ‘Give me alms for the love of God.’” John glanced at him and thought, _It must be nice to be fluent in nearly every human language._ Sherlock continued, “The painting is far from famous to the world at large.”   
  
“So, why did Lupin target it?” John asked. “Especially after he pulled off the theft of the _Mona Lisa;_ it’s rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”   
  
“Indeed,” Sherlock hummed distractedly. “Something must set it apart – but what? It could have something to do with me, as he’s calling for me specifically.” He clicked through a few other sites before rippling lightly. “I don’t understand. It’s a picture of a beggar emphasising his distinctive malformation to get money – or, it’s a picture of a beggar being ignored by the wealthier class. What’s the point?”   
  
John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder to see the painting for himself. _It doesn’t look particularly special. Granted, neither does the_ Mona Lisa _if you didn’t know how famous it is – but it at least has some special relevance. This is just a painting of a beggar boy with a bad foot and a crutch._ “If he hadn’t already established that he can steal anything he wants by nabbing the _Mona Lisa,_ I’d wonder if this was a decoy to throw us off the scent while he stole something more valuable, if there even is such a thing. But, he hardly needs to do that, does he?”   
  
Sherlock huffed and twitched irritably. “Fine. If we can’t figure out the painting, we’ll have to figure out the man. He’s boasting by challenging me, certainly, but there must be more to it. While he excels at evading human defences against theft, he has no way to predict my full range of abilities; calling for me was a huge risk on his part. Why would he take it?”

“He was bored?” John tried, knowing it was wrong even as he said it. _The man’s a professional thief; there’s no way he’s risking his entire career on a game, no matter what he said in the notice._  
  
Predictably, Sherlock shook his head. “No, that’s not it. Perhaps, having overcome several of the best security systems in the world, he’s testing his own skill against the unknown: Me.” He surged to his feet and paced the room, limbs writhing in agitation as he spoke. “Still, a major risk for such a well-known thief – especially as I already know his face! – but if he manages to best me and steal the painting, he’ll be able to claim an ‘honour’ no other criminal can.”  
  
“But, you won’t be able to go, will you?” John interjected. “Anthea’s bound to keep you here.”  
  
That stopped Sherlock in his tracks: His face froze for a half-second before he recovered his equilibrium and returned to the sofa. “Of course,” he murmured. “I’d forgotten for a moment.”  
  
 _Ouch._ Chest feeling tight at the carefully neutral expression on Sherlock’s face, John wrapped an arm over the alien’s shoulders and tugged him into his side. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “For what it’s worth.”  
  
Sherlock gave him a crafted smile and shrugged into John’s hold. “It’s not your fault that things aren’t ideal, but thank you. For what it’s worth.”  
  
“Always.” John rubbed a circle against Sherlock’s shoulder, barely noticing as it morphed around the pressure from his hand. “You never know: Maybe a miracle will happen and Anthea will say yes.”  
  
The all-too-human snort against his temple told him all that he needed to know about Sherlock’s opinion on the matter.  


* * *

_The worst thing about the past,_ John thought in shock four days later, _is that it comes around to bite you when you least expect it._ “Fuck,” he muttered at the man on the telly. Beside him, Sherlock nodded in agreement and clasped John’s hand.   
  
“The aliens are a threat to our peace of mind,” Sebastian Wilkes told the interviewer. “If we can’t trust them to not impersonate our leaders and our loved ones, then we can’t even trust our own judgment.”   
  
With a sinking sensation of dread, John thought of Jeremy Portillo. _‘Our loved ones,’ indeed. Shit._ On-screen, the interviewer challenged, “Would you not say that we can offer this new species the benefit of the doubt? How do we even know that they can impersonate humans so easily? The British government has been keeping quiet on the aliens’ abilities and physiologies; for all we know, they could be completely human except for their ability to stretch, as we saw in that clip.” The scene cut to a quick shot of Moriarty’s video from the pool and froze on Sherlock extending far beyond human capacity to catch the detonator before it hit the ground.   
  
Sebastian started talking before the camera had even returned to him. “The government may have been keeping the aliens hidden from the public sight, but one of the aliens visited my workplace several days ago. I won’t go into detail about the disruption Sherlock Holmes caused, but I did come away from the experience with a security tape explicitly showing the alien disguising itself and its human companion – the same John Watson that we just saw in Flahave’s clip – to avoid a security detail.”   
  
Sherlock paled nearly white and lost most of his human form. John blindly pulled the blobby mass beside him closer and wrapped an arm around Sherlock, unable to tear his eyes away from the disaster unfolding on the television. The interviewer turned to face the camera with an almost gleeful expression. “Let’s take a look at that footage, then.”

The screen cut to a blurry image of the corridor just outside the exit of the men’s toilet. After a few seconds, a still-recognisable John appeared as if from nowhere and strode toward the camera, stepping out into the stairwell. The image cut to the feed from a camera on Adler’s floor, and when John appeared everything below his neck had been disguised as an overweight businessman. His face, however, remained uncovered. _Fucking hell; we’re beyond screwed._ The cameras followed John and Sherlock as best they could until they returned to Sebastian’s floor and were apprehended by security. The footage included Sherlock breaking into Adler’s office and slipping out unnoticed after she’d gone in several minutes later. John clutched Sherlock throughout and sustained a mental litany of _God damn it all to hell!_   
  
The interviewer reappeared and nodded. “Well, that does seem to be rather incriminating, but couldn’t it just be a particularly limited ability for disguise? Perhaps the aliens can disguise others, but can’t control their own disguises enough to function when they shape-shift?”   
  
Sebastian laughed – actually threw his head back and _laughed_ – and shook his head. “Oh, no; that’s where this story gets personal. See, I’ve actually known the alien quite a long time. We used to work together, in fact, long before anyone knew there was anything suspicious about him. I hadn’t had contact with him for several months, at least not until I called him in to help with a security breach in the bank. I hadn’t yet realised that alien life was a possibility, of course,” he added. “The alien solved the breach, by the way – they’re really frighteningly intelligent, you know; unbelievable brainpower – but there was an unusual episode in the middle.”   
  
“He’s not – He _can’t_ – ” John spluttered, desperately hoping that Sebastian wasn’t about to do what he thought he was. _He went through such great pains to keep Jeremy a secret; he wouldn’t just blurt it out, would he?_   
  
“I’ve been in a relationship with my boyfriend, Jeremy Portillo, for nearly three years now.” _He did. FUCK._ John watched, horrified, as Jeremy Portillo stepped onto the set and stood beside Sebastian. “Sherlock, it seems, found out about it when we worked together at the bank. Flahave’s assertion that the aliens can read and control minds has some basis in truth there, at least: Jeremy and I had agreed that our relationship wasn’t anyone’s business but our own, so I was very careful to be discreet about the whole affair. I remain confident that no one would have been able to figure it out without putting some real effort into it, but Sherlock came to know about our relationship without my or Jeremy’s knowledge. While I don’t claim to understand the way the aliens work, I wouldn’t put it past them to have stolen the information directly from my mind.   
  
“So, during the recent investigation at the bank where I called Sherlock to help find the breach, I had an emotionally disturbing confrontation with Jeremy. The first unusual aspect was that he came to me during a business meal – as I said, we were trying to keep our relationship private.”   
  
Jeremy cut in, “Seb told me about it later, and I can promise you that I would never have behaved so carelessly. I’d have called or texted Seb if it were important and asked him to meet me somewhere; I have the utmost trust that he would have done so.” He placed a deliberate hand on Sebastian’s shoulder.   
  
Sebastian smiled up at Jeremy and rested his own hand on Jeremy’s. “I followed the man who I thought was Jeremy to an alley near the restaurant, where I was told that one of my employees had been brutally murdered.” Jeremy’s hand squeezed Sebastian’s shoulder in support, and Sebastian took a breath before continuing, “I was emotionally distraught; I’d been impressed by the man’s work, and I’d planned to promote him because he was, frankly, an exemplary employee.”   
  
“Except for the part where he was a smuggler for a crime syndicate,” John muttered incredulously. Sherlock remained silent.

“The man put me through great emotional duress and pressed me for information regarding the deceased employee,” Sebastian said. “The truly frightening part is that I didn’t realise there was anything wrong until I tried to talk to Jeremy about it later that evening.”  
  
Jeremy nodded. “I, of course, had no idea what he was talking about. I hadn’t seen him since the day before. We couldn’t understand what had happened – it was incredibly surreal, and more than a little frightening.”  
  
“We agreed to put the incident behind us,” Sebastian added, “but when I saw that security footage from the alien’s activity in my workplace, I put everything together. Sherlock Holmes impersonated my boyfriend of several years to such a degree that even I couldn’t tell the difference, and he used that deception to gather information to further his own agenda.” _It was to solve your bloody case, you tosser!_ “Who’s to say that the prime minister won’t be next? The next world war could begin tomorrow if the aliens impersonated the right people. They are a threat to humanity, and Flahave was right to want them off of the planet!”  
  
 _“Flahave was a murderer and the head of a world-wide crime syndicate!”_ John roared at the man’s image. _How dare you side with him?!_ “He was a fucking _monster!”_  
  
Without saying a word or even reforming into a human, Sherlock reached out and flicked the telly off. John shook his head, trembling in fury – _So, it’s Sebastian’s betrayal that finally aligns our body language?_ – and pulled Sherlock close. “He can’t do this,” he hissed into Sherlock’s skin. “He can’t fucking do this.”  
  
Sherlock curled a tendril around the back of John’s head and said nothing.

* * *

By the time Anthea arrived three hours later, Sebastian Wilkes had already become the de facto face of the Pro-Earth movement. John stared at the list of blogs supporting Sebastian and Jeremy’s story, marvelling at how idiocy spread through social media. “There are three different pages about how Moriarty – sorry, _Flahave_ – is a martyr whose example we should all follow,” he announced as Anthea stepped through the door to the flat. “I’m sorry, but does nobody remember that he was a psychopathic _lunatic?”_   
  
“I think they’re all rather more concerned with the aliens impersonating humans,” Anthea snapped. John looked up to see her braced for confrontation with her heels planted into the carpet as she glared at the lump of Sherlock on the sofa. “What were you thinking?”   
  
For the first time since the broadcast, Sherlock reformed as a human and spoke. “I didn’t realise how badly it would turn out,” he murmured, form loose and undefined. “I was too focused on the case to consider collateral damage.” He looked up at Anthea and admitted, “I made a mistake.”   
  
“That’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you think?” Anthea bit out. She sighed, posture relaxing slightly, and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve promised that you won’t take any human form but this,” she reminded him.   
  
“Wait,” John jumped in; “that was months after the incident with Sebastian. You can’t punish him for breaking a promise he hadn’t made yet!” _We put up with plenty of unfairness from you, but that’s completely unethical._   
  
Anthea raised an eyebrow at him and shook her head. “I was going to ask him to reaffirm that promise and tell me if there are any other ‘mistakes’ like Wilkes and Portillo waiting to pop up.”   
  
_Oh. That’s…not what I was expecting._ John watched tensely, waiting for the catch and restrictions to appear, while Sherlock informed her that the only other time he had even remotely broken his promise was when he had disguised John in Tower 42. To John’s mild shock, they never came; Anthea verbally reprimanded Sherlock and immediately changed the topic to damage control.   
  
“We can’t control the security clips or Wilkes’ anecdotes,” she admitted, “but we can control the amount of support the Pro-Earthlings receive from him.” She nodded at John’s laptop. “You’ve seen the move to formally organize around him? Well, we might be able to get Wilkes to back off, leaving them baseless.”   
  
“That interview was pretty damning,” John argued, rubbing Sherlock’s shoulder when he flinched and blurred at the comment.

“Yes, but we might still have a chance to nip this in the bud. I’m going to call on Wilkes after I leave and see if I can convince him to withdraw himself from the Pro-Earth movement, at least publicly.”  
  
 _Good luck,_ John thought. They waited for Sherlock to give Anthea some sort of ammunition to use against Sebastian, but he remained silent. After a few seconds, Anthea shrugged and left with a brief stop downstairs to give Mrs. Hudson some advice. “The Pro-Earthlings are going to get more aggressive after this, no matter what happens,” she said on her way out the door. “We need to be prepared.”  
  
As the front door clicked shut on the crowd’s cries, Sherlock devolved back into a shapeless mass. John looked down at him and sighed, wondering if the poor alien would ever get a break.  


* * *

An hour-and-a-half later, Anthea reached them through Mrs. Hudson – “Don’t forget to give her your new phone numbers soon, dears.” – to summarise her meeting with Sebastian.   
  
“Wilkes was more reasonable than I was expecting. I think that he’s accepted, more or less, that you’re not here to harm mankind, but he’s still very wary,” she explained. “He wants to talk to you. Both of you.”   
  
Sherlock exchanged a glance with John. “If he thinks that I can control humans’ brains, what purpose does that serve? He wouldn’t believe anything John or I say.” John grimaced and nodded in agreement.   
  
Anthea’s voice was tight with stress. “It’ll at least give you a chance to neutralise the damage he’s done: Wilkes says that if you talk to him, he’ll consider disappearing from the public eye and removing his visible support for the Pro-Earth community. It’s no guarantee, but it’s the best I can get you.”   
  
John watched Sherlock’s hand deform and writhe around itself for a few seconds while the alien decided. Sherlock looked up and nodded. “I’ll do it,” he said. John echoed the agreement.   
  
“Alright.” Anthea took a few breaths, and John heard the faint sound of paper shuffling in the background. “He said that he’s available for the rest of the day; I’ll leave Mycroft under guard and bring Wilkes to your flat in two hours. Will you be ready?”   
  
“What’ve we got to prepare for?” John asked wryly. “We’re as ready now as we ever will be.”   
  
“Right.” Anthea sighed, creating a static gust in the connection. “Just watch your step,” she warned. “You can’t afford to mess this up.” On that ominous note, she disconnected.   
  
John looked at Sherlock before glancing behind him at the flat. “On second thought,” he considered, seeing the inevitable mess of two men – well, a man and an alien – living together, “maybe we should pick up around here before they arrive.” Despite the light blurring around Sherlock’s eyes, the alien chuckled tensely at John’s attempt at levity.   


* * *

Sebastian’s arrival was heralded by a dramatic swell in the cheers – and hisses – outside: When John nudged the curtain aside just a bit, he could see the Pro-Earthlings cheering Sebastian’s approach while the Pro-Aliens cursed him and shook their fists. For a moment, it seemed as though a small riot would break out on John’s front stoop, but then Anthea unlocked the front door behind the guards and ushered Sebastian in.   
  
“He’s here,” John told Sherlock unnecessarily. They could both hear his voice downstairs. “Ready?” John asked, turning to look Sherlock over.   
  
Sherlock had invested almost five minutes of concentration in his form, trying to get every detail and texture exactly correct, but as Sebastian’s footsteps came up the stairs a sudden wave of nerves blurred the sharper edges. John smiled at him and tapped Sherlock’s hand before turning to the door as Sebastian entered their flat.   
  
It was hard to fight the answering snarl to Sebastian’s sneer as he peered around the sitting room. “Sherlock Holmes,” Sebastian said, guarded eyes coming to rest on them, “and John Watson. What an honour.” Behind him, Anthea winced and shrugged apologetically.   
  
The snippy tone was surprising, but John remembered the vitriolic speech Sebastian had given earlier and decided that some rudeness was to be expected. _We just have to be on our best behaviour and prove that we’re more gracious than that._ “It’s our pleasure, and we really appreciate your time,” John lied. “Please, come in and have a seat. Tea?”

Sebastian seemed thrown by the pleasantry, but he recovered and followed John’s gesture to an armchair. “Of course.” While John went to the kitchen to get the drinks, Sebastian turned to Sherlock, who had sat across from him on the sofa. “What’s the matter with your hands?”   
  
John glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Sherlock’s skin regain its definition. Sherlock explained, “It happens sometimes. My apologies if it makes you uncomfortable; I’ll try to control it.”   
  
“Hm.” Sebastian remained silent after than until John returned with three cups of tea. John passed them out to Sebastian and Anthea before taking a sip of his own, and Sebastian’s eyebrows rose. “No tea for you, Sherlock? I thought I’d seen you drink it when you worked at the bank.”   
  
Sherlock shrugged. “I can drink it, but it’s rather pointless. I’ll just throw it away later.” At Sebastian’s blank expression, he added, “I don’t need to eat or drink anything to survive, and my body has no method of absorbing nutrients from liquids.”   
  
The breathy noise that came from behind Sebastian’s mug sounded suspiciously like “Freak,” and John felt himself tensing in fury while Sherlock flinched beside him. The alien’s skin blurred for a second before Sherlock caught it and forced it back into focus. “So,” Sebastian said, placing his tea on the table, “it seems to me that we have a few things to discuss.”   
  
“Of course,” Sherlock replied. “While I know that you can’t recall your accusations against me without destroying your credibility, I think it would be immensely helpful if you were to avoid the public eye and any Pro-Earth organisations. Unfortunately, you’ve already drawn a large amount of attention to yourself, but –” Sherlock cut himself off and joined John in staring at Sebastian in shock. The man had thrown his head back and was _laughing._   
  
“You really think I’m here to help you?” Sebastian chuckled darkly. When he returned his gaze to them, there was no trace of the warily curious banker who’d walked through their door. “Wrong. I just wanted to confirm a few suspicions. Flahave was right about everything, wasn’t he?” He pointed at Sherlock, who paled. “You’re an agent of destruction; the pacifism is just a front.” The finger moved to John. John considered breaking it. “And, you’re his slave. I can see it, I suppose: You barely spoke two sentences to me when you came with Sherlock, and you let him walk all over you, don’t you?”   
  
John gritted his teeth and flicked his gaze over Sebastian’s shoulder to Anthea, who was staring at Sebastian as if she’d found a snake in the middle of her garden. _She didn’t know,_ John comforted himself. _She thought he was honestly willing to change his mind._ “You’re mistaken,” he told Sebastian. “You’re mistaken on all fronts.”   
  
“Am I?” Sebastian tilted his head and withdrew his finger. “Maybe I am.” He glanced around the flat, making a show of examining the décor. “This place does have a somewhat human touch.” John was suddenly very glad that Sherlock had made such a fuss about John personalising the flat. “I doubt _he_ would have cared enough to put it together, which does suggest your independence. So, Flahave was wrong about the mind-control. What’s your motivation, then?”   
  
“He’s a good person and my friend,” John stated. “That’s all I need.”   
  
Sherlock’s hand brushed against John’s, and John looked over to see him smiling gratefully. Across from them, Sebastian suddenly shot to his feet. “No, that’s not it,” he snarled, face twisted into something truly ugly. “You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you? But, you follow that monster because he’s brainwashed you. It’s obvious; how have we not seen it before?” Sebastian smiled grimly. “Is he so good a lay that you’ll toss over your entire species?”   
  
_Why does everyone assume that we’re shagging?!_ “I’m not brainwashed, and we’re not in a sexual relationship,” John ground out. Too late, he realised that he’d grabbed Sherlock’s hand instinctively at Sebastian’s movement earlier. _That…might have something to do with it._

Instead of pointing it out, Sebastian shook his head. “You know, I think the real monster here is you, Watson. He might be here to destroy us all, but you’ve turned yourself into a willing slave and damned us all because you can’t keep it in your trousers.” John closed his eyes and willed himself to stay calm, but the next accusation killed off any illusion of control. “Or, is it because you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that he _loves_ you?”   
  
_I can only wish,_ John thought, gritting his teeth against an overwhelming surge of fury and hurt. _“Delusion,” he says; he might be blind about everything else, but Sebastian got one thing right._ Sherlock’s hand convulsed around his, and John shook his head, fighting to keep calm.   
  
Clearly disappointed in John’s non-reaction, Sebastian tried, “So, it’s not about love?” He peered over his nose at Sherlock, and behind him Anthea finally shook herself out of her shock and moved forward to intervene. “I’d bet you don’t settle with just one; greedy slut that you are, you’ve probably thrown yourself at his brother, too. Tell me, do they discuss plans to overthrow the human race while they’re fucking you?”   
  
The next thing he knew, Sebastian was sprawled back in the armchair with a bloody nose, and John’s knuckles ached. Slowly, John realised that he was swearing and fighting a hold – Sherlock’s – to swing again, but Sherlock’s arms had devolved into tentacles that trapped John as securely as a straightjacket. “John, stop!” Sherlock pled.   
  
While John’s furious energy abated, Anthea stepped between him and Sebastian and glared at the fallen man. “We’re leaving,” she snapped, pulling a handkerchief and kneeling to roughly wipe away the blood, “and you will never return here again. Am I understood?”   
  
“Clearly,” Sebastian slurred past the handkerchief clamped over his nose. He struggled to his feet, glaring at John all the while, and strode past him to the door. “I hope you’re happy with your decision to become a traitor to the human race,” he called back at John, “just for an exotic shag.”   
  
_I’m going to fucking murder him,_ John thought, straining against Sherlock’s hold. Sherlock twitched and wrapped another tentacle around him as an admittedly unnecessary precaution. John closed his eyes, and by the time he opened them again both Anthea and Sebastian were gone. The crowd outside went insane when the front door opened, and John could only imagine what both sides of the issue would make of Sebastian’s experience when he inevitably went public with it. _It’s not going to be pretty, no matter what. Damn it all!_   
  
“John?” Sherlock asked, slowly loosening his tentacles as John lost his tension. “Are you…?”   
  
“Okay? No. Unharmed? Mostly.” He flexed his left hand, feeling the burn of stretched wounds. _Fucking furious? Definitely._ John sighed. “I’m alright. You?”   
  
Sherlock released John completely and collapsed back on the sofa. “I’ll live,” he sighed before devolving back into his natural form, skin paling to a light shade of grey. John stared at him for a few seconds and turned to look at the window, debating whether or not he wanted to pull back the curtains to see how the crowd had responded. He decided against it when he saw the shattered ceramic on the floor – _I must have dropped my cup when I attacked Sebastian._ The sight of his destructive behaviour made him sigh, righteous anger draining away to be replaced with guilt. _Even after all these months with Sherlock, giving up my gun and encouraging Sherlock and Mycroft in their bid for pacifism, I resorted to violence to solve a conflict without a single thought._   
  
Gut twisting unpleasantly, John looked back at Sherlock. _Well done, Watson; in one blow, you’ve managed to empower Sebastian’s claim – however wrong it may be – and show Sherlock that no matter how much I support him, my first instinct in a conflict is violence. Of all the people on the planet, I should be the one most in-line with their pacifistic ideals._ Instead, Sherlock had been forced to restrain him from beating the man to a bloody pulp.

Ashamed and not sure how to voice it to the motionless form on the couch, John gathered the pieces of the shattered cup and threw them away. _I’ve failed him,_ he thought, glancing over his shoulder at the paled alien. _I’m his liaison with humanity – I’m the one he’s spent most time and effort with – but in the end I betrayed his message of peace. Where are we supposed to go from here?_   


* * *

Ten minutes later, John managed to bury his own guilt enough to give in to his concern for Sherlock, who still hadn’t moved. “Sherlock?” he asked, hesitantly approaching. John ran a hand over Sherlock’s back, feeling his gut twist in another surge of guilt when Sherlock didn’t move. Sherlock hadn’t been this unresponsive and removed since…ever, really. _God, Sherlock. I’m so sorry._ John’s tight breathing and the shouts and cheers outside were the only sounds in the flat.   
  
He got no verbal reply, but after a few seconds Sherlock slowly twisted a tendril over John’s fingers up to his wrist before reabsorbing it. Perhaps John was reading into the motion more than he should, but the movement seemed melancholy. He wondered if it was a sign of reluctant forgiveness or of resignation to failure.   
  
“Listen, if it’s about me hitting Sebastian, I’m sorry,” John blurted. “I didn’t think; I just reacted.” _But, that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? My instinctual reaction was violence._ “I was so _angry,_ though! Those things he said about you, about me, about Mycroft – I couldn’t just sit back and listen to it.”   
  
The oil-plastic skin beneath his hand shifted and reformed into Sherlock’s basic human form: He’d only used the bare minimum of effort, though, and it showed in the lack of details and textures. “So, you attacked him,” Sherlock summarised. “John, Anthea was standing right there, ready to intervene! There were so many nonviolent ways to respond to him; why did you attack him?” His skin was rippling heavily, and John grimaced as he tried to formulate an answer.   
  
“He was a threat,” John realised. “He was a threat, and he was trying to hurt you – hurt _us._ I had to stop him.” He clenched his hands into fists, and looked away from Sherlock. As much as it hurt him to say, he admitted, “I wanted to make him feel the hurt he was trying to cause for us.”   
  
Sherlock was silent beside him, and John winced, feeling about three centimetres tall. After a few seconds, Sherlock murmured, “Retaliation and protection.”   
  
“Sorry?”   
  
“Retaliation and protection,” the alien repeated, voice holding a trace of genuine interest behind the deadened tone of resignation. “You acted out of fear that he would hurt us, and you wanted to punish him to discourage him from trying again.” Sherlock sighed. “It wouldn’t have worked, of course, but I’m coming to learn that fear is one of your species’ most powerful motivators.”   
  
John risked a glance up at Sherlock’s body language; although he still hadn’t formed the minutia of his form, Sherlock wasn’t rippling and actually seemed to be leaning toward John. _Perhaps, there’s hope yet?_ “Fear and love,” John agreed. _And, when both work in tandem, God help those who stand in the way._ He instantly felt bad about the combative thought.   
  
“The same applies to Sebastian,” Sherlock continued. “He said what he did out of fear, and he used hate as a way of dealing with that fear.” Glancing at John’s tense and guilt-wracked posture, Sherlock blurred even more and turned his head away. “But, that doesn’t mean that what he said isn’t true to some degree. Mycroft and I are objects of fear, here; I’m starting to think our very presence is counterproductive to peace on your planet.”   
  
_“No!”_ John stared at Sherlock, gut clenching. _Don’t do this to yourself, Sherlock; if you let them destroy your self-respect like this, then they’ll have won._ “He’s wrong, Sherlock. You’re doing the right thing; you’re here to help us.” _How can you possibly think differently?_

“Yes, and look what we’ve managed to do so far!” Sherlock exploded, trembling as he whirled to glare at John. “You just attacked a man to protect us. Mycroft and I are supposed to be unifying your people, but your entire _planet_ is divided by our mere existence. And, I know I overwhelm you sometimes. You do things you don’t want to do because I manipulate you into it.” Still shivering, Sherlock’s features blurred further; he looked away and whited out. “I considered Sebastian…not a friend, exactly, but not an enemy either. I thought that he was a good person at heart, even if he didn’t particularly like me. Now, though – Now, I’ve driven him to a level of hate that I never would have predicted.”  
  
 _Oh, Sherlock._ Heart breaking a little, John gathered the alien close. “You can’t be held responsible for anyone’s actions but your own,” he said. “Sebastian and the Pro-Earthlings chose to react the way he did and ignore all evidence pointing to your good intentions. Yeah, impersonating Jeremy was a mistake, but if Sebastian had just _listened_ today and tried to understand, it might not have ended so badly. And, well. As for me, I know that I made a mistake earlier.” _God, did I make a mistake. I’m so sorry._ “But, I do what I do because I decide to do it. Not even you can force me to do something completely against my will, Sherlock.” Wanting to add a hint of humour to the bleak situation, he amended, “Unless, of course, you really do have mind-control abilities that you’ve been keeping secret.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t laugh, but he did relax into John’s hold. “Maybe,” he allowed.  
  
They sat in silence curled together like that until Anthea returned twenty minutes later and informed them that Wilkes had told her in no uncertain terms that he would be taking the unofficial role of the Pro-Earthlings’ leader. “I’m sorry,” she said, eyes haggard. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how I’ll tell Mycroft.”  
  
Wincing, John suggested, “Maybe I should be the one to tell Mycroft. I’m the one who caused us even more problems with Sebastian, this time.”  
  
Anthea shook her head. “No, I brought him here. It’s my responsibility.” While John’s show of support had lessened the weight in her gaze, she still looked like she was heading to her own funeral.  
  
John exchanged a glance with Sherlock. “You’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “Just tell him what happened and that we’re coping.”  
  
“Yeah.” After apologising once more, Anthea left.  


* * *

“As many of you know, I had the opportunity to visit Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in their flat several days ago. I determined that Flahave was wrong in one major respect: John Watson is not the alien’s mind-slave. Holmes’ only hold over him is his willingness to engage in illicit sexual relations, which Watson clearly considers more important than the well-being of the human race,” Sebastian told an avid reporter on-screen.   
  
“What makes you so certain that they are engaging in sexual activities?” the reporter asked.   
  
“Look at his posture and bearing,” Sherlock muttered. “The question was clearly planned before hand. This entire thing is a scripted farce.”   
  
On-screen, Sebastian explained, “Their behaviours toward each other were far more intimate than mere friends; I’ve seen lovers who were more removed than those two.”   
  
“Thank you, Mr. Wilkes,” the reporter said, turning to the camera. “Let’s go back to our studio for another look at this odd couple. Anna?”   
  
The image cut to the news station, where Anna smiled. “Thank you, Frederick. Sebastian Wilkes, speaking on behalf of the Pro-Earth movement, claims that John Watson and the alien Sherlock Holmes are in a perverse inter-species sexual relationship, but can we trust his word alone? We’ve got a few experts here to examine the evidence and tell us whether this interpretation is accurate. I introduce to you body-language analysts Timothy Larken and Olivia Ramirez.”

“Good afternoon,” the two analysts chorused. Ramirez held up a remote and gestured to the screen behind her. “We’re going to take a look at some footage from the police records of crime scenes, recorded for documentary purposes. Holmes and Watson appear in several clips from the last year.” She pressed a button, and the screen played a montage of snapshots taken of John and Sherlock together, interspersed with a few silenced clips of them interacting. Watching it, John cringed at the constant lack of space between him and Sherlock; from an outside perspective, they really _were_ almost always in intimate contact.  
  
“We’ll start with the distance between their bodies,” Larken said; Ramirez hit another button, and the screen split into several frames showing John and Sherlock standing near each other. “On average, these two stand between twelve and twenty centimetres apart. The average personal space distance between two friendly adult males in Britain is over forty-six centimetres.” John suddenly became hyperaware of the slight pressure of Sherlock’s arm against his, and he guiltily shifted away. “Watson and Holmes’ distance is extremely low even for homosexual male couples, but past footage of John Watson, kindly donated from previous acquaintances, shows that he usually maintains a slightly larger personal distance than the national average.”  
  
Ramirez picked up the narration. “Then, there are the forms and frequency of physical contact. In one two-minute clip” – she hit the remote, and a clip played behind her – “they touch no less than thirteen separate times. While most of this contact is casual and targets extremities such as the arm or hand, they tend to sustain contact for several seconds longer than is necessary. Occasionally,” she added, gesturing to the screen where Sherlock was in the process of draping an arm over John’s shoulders and brushing a hand against the side of his neck, “the touches are far more suggestive.”  
  
Larken nodded and took over. “Clearly, Holmes and Watson enjoy a much closer relationship than any of Watson’s past acquaintances. However, while looking through our video footage we noticed another trend.” She pressed a button on the remote, and suddenly John was talking to Mycroft on the screen.  
  
“Oh, God,” John groaned, burying his face in his hands. “They’re not really about to accuse me of what I think they are, are they?”  
  
“It seems that Watson has a soft spot in his heart for both aliens,” Ramirez joked. “While the average distance between Watson and Mycroft Holmes is closer to twenty-five centimetres, it is still far below Watson’s norm. These two have a very close and intimate relationship, clearly; in fact, Watson _only_ demonstrates this behaviour with the aliens. So far, all of the evidence seems to suggest that Watson has intimate relations with both aliens.”  
  
Speechless, John could only stare at the screen in horror. _I – Mycroft – No. Just…no. Jesus; I’m never going to feel clean again, am I?_ Sherlock reached over and rested a comforting arm on his back. _At least Anthea will know better than to trust what they’re saying; Mycroft will still have a chance with her. As much a chance as he had before, at any rate._  
  
“However, Watson is not the aliens’ only source of contact,” Larken added. “When Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes appear together in public, they exhibit similarly intimate behaviour.” Sherlock froze against John’s back as the analyst pulled up another image, this time with Sherlock and Mycroft. They were sitting hand-in-hand on a bench, heads pressed together as they communicated telepathically. Larken explained, “They are almost always holding hands, at the very least; here, we see them in a more intimate pose. You’ll notice the mere centimetres between their shoulders and hips; clearly, these two are accustomed to frequent contact with each other.”  
  
“Of course they are,” John muttered, disgusted. “It’s only required for their bloody _sanity._ Wankers.”

Ramirez hit another button, and the screen went blank. She folded her arms on the table and leaned toward the camera. “As you can see from the footage, Watson is intimate with not only Sherlock Holmes but also with Mycroft. Based on relative levels of comfort between the three, it’s most likely that the aliens were intimate with each other first and chose to add Watson to their relationship later.”   
  
Larken jumped in. “While it’s far from the only explanation for this behaviour, Wilkes’ theory that the aliens and Watson are in a sexual relationship fits with their high propensity for physical contact. They’re certainly very comfortable with each other’s bodies.”   
  
“Thank you, Olivia Ramirez and Timothy Larken,” Anna said as the camera swung back to her. “There you have it: Even the experts have found an unusual intimacy between the aliens and John Watson. Frederick, what does Sebastian Wilkes have to add to that?”   
  
The shot switched back to Sebastian and the reporter; after getting one look at the hastily-disguised expression of glee on Sebastian’s face, John shook his head and stood up. “I can’t watch any more of this,” he announced. “I’m going to make a cup of tea.” _And, if I’m lucky, I won’t throw the whole bloody lot into the wall._   
  
“John,” Sherlock called, flipping the telly off and standing up. John stopped and turned to face him, one eyebrow raised in silent query. “Are you alright?”   
  
“No,” John sighed, letting his revulsion dissipate slightly. “I’m rather furious with my species’ crudeness at the moment,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand over his face.   
  
Sherlock stepped up to John and stretched a hand to John’s; millimetres before it connected, Sherlock hesitated and pulled it back. “We probably should get used to more limited contact,” he explained to John’s confused expression. “There’s no sense in giving the rumour more ammunition, and we’ll certainly slip up in public if we don’t accustom ourselves to it now.”   
  
_He’s got a point,_ John admitted. _The next time we step into the public eye, everyone’s going to be scrutinising us for anything even remotely incriminating._ He looked over the slight tremors running up and down Sherlock’s form and sighed. _But, if I spend every moment living in fear of what the tabloids will say, I’ll never live at all. I’m not going to give those idiots that kind of control over me._   
  
The blanked expression of surprise Sherlock gave him when John grabbed him into a hug was painful to see. “I don’t give a damn what they say about us,” John growled into Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m not going to change how I act around you – or Mycroft. You two are family, and no amount of bad publicity will change that.”   
  
There was no verbal response, but Sherlock wrapped his arms around John in return and clutched him close. _I’m not going anywhere,_ John resolved. _And, that wouldn’t change even if I wasn’t in love. Damn the media, anyway; they don’t understand_ anything.   


* * *

It shouldn’t have surprised John that Anthea had organised a counter-argument by the end of the day. “I wanted to get your permission to release information on your physiology,” she’d told Sherlock over the phone. “Mycroft’s agreed that disclosure is the better route in this instance, but your feedback is important, too.”   
  
Always seeking to improve human-alien relations, Sherlock had readily agreed. When John flipped on the evening news, he found himself staring at a scientist from the Orkney base. _What the hell?_ Head tilted in confusion, he called Sherlock over and settled in to watch.   
  
“My name is Devon Claybourn,” he introduced himself, “and I work in a government facility in the northern UK. I had the opportunity to work with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Mycroft Holmes and Dr. John Watson while they were held on-base shortly after the infamous explosion which found its way to the internet.”   
  
“Is this Anthea’s idea of disclosure?” John asked incredulously. “Statements from a man who was biased against us?” _I doubt he was particularly happy about Zimmerman losing his job, even if the bastard completely deserved it._

To John’s utter surprise, Claybourn’s next sentence was, “Therefore, I feel singularly entitled to say that the so-called expert body-language analysis I saw earlier today was complete rubbish.” _What?_ John sat up straighter. “While their techniques were legitimate, the fundamental mistake was attempting to apply human norms to a non-human species.   
  
“I have been permitted to release some previously classified information to the public,” Claybourn announced. “The aliens, despite their usually humanoid appearance, are fundamentally different: Where humans are physically static, the aliens have a very fluid body shape. As we’ve all seen, they are capable of changing their body’s form, colour and consistency at will. They have no bones; they have no internal organs as we know them.”   
  
John and Sherlock watched silently while Claybourn outlined what he’d learned in that facility in Orkney. He commented on their need for sunlight and the versatility of the aliens’ abilities before turning the topic to their telepathy.   
  
“The aliens informed me that their species naturally communicates through touch-based telepathy; because of this, physical contact holds an incredibly important place in their culture. If they don’t reaffirm their physical connections with each other, they will quite literally go insane. Contact for the aliens is comparable to REM sleep for humans: They can survive without it, but it severely damages the psyche.   
  
“While humans are not compatible with their telepathy, during separate sessions with the base psychologist both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes expressed discomfort with suppressing their ingrained need for touch around humans. From their interactions on the base, Dr. Watson appears to have chosen to accommodate their needs; what we would consider intimate is merely a compromise between the two cultures.   
  
“Olivia Ramirez and Timothy Larken made one major mistake in their analysis earlier today: They failed to take into account the major variable of the aliens’ culture. I will cede that Dr. Watson’s frequent close contact with Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes is unusual for him; however, he’s been interacting with them for several years. That’s plenty of time to adjust to a new norm.”   
  
“Wow,” John muttered as the clip of Claybourn ended and the newscaster recited Claybourn’s credentials and reaffirmed the government’s validation of the information. “He’s actually got it right.” _What a refreshing change._   
  
Sherlock huffed a laugh beside him. “Well, I suppose your _entire_ planet couldn’t be filled with complete imbeciles.” He grinned to take away any bite from the insult, and John rolled his eyes. “Anthea did a pretty good job on such short notice.”   
  
Humming in agreement, John flipped the television off. “She did.” With the noise from the television gone, the sounds from the crowd outside, somehow different from its usual rumble, became clearer. He tilted his head in the silent flat. “Do you hear the protesters?” he asked.   
  
Before Sherlock could reply, someone outside screamed and a gunshot went off. John flinched and looked toward the window as something – the bullet? – ricocheted off the reinforced surface. _Who the hell is shooting in the middle of London?!_ The noise of the crowd outside swelled in hysterical screams as panic overtook the mob. _Shit; someone’s going to get hurt!_   
  
John nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock grabbed his arm, but when he’d reassured Sherlock that he was unharmed, the alien spun and raced down the stairs. “Mrs. Hudson!” he shouted, launching himself over the banister. “Are you alright?”   
  
_Mrs. Hudson’s windows are bullet-proof, too,_ John reminded the stutter of his heart. Regardless, he hurried after Sherlock as quickly as he could go without injuring himself. As he passed the entranceway, he heard the frantic orders of the guards stationed outside attempting to calm and control the chaos.   
  
The curtains in Mrs. Hudson’s flat were pulled, of course; the half-light lent a disturbingly warm glow to the otherwise motionless sitting room. “Mrs. Hudson?” John called, hesitating by the sofa. “Sherlock?”

“In the kitchen,” Mrs. Hudson called back. When John stepped into the room, he saw Sherlock standing with her near the far wall; Mrs. Hudson had her mobile at her ear. “Yes, I’ve got them both,” she said into the phone. “We’re safe for the moment, but it’s utter insanity outside.”  
  
Sherlock stretched a hand around John to peek past the curtains. “The officers have subdued the gunman, and Anthea’s guards are dispersed throughout the crowd,” he reported. “I don’t see any major injuries.”  
  
“Thank God for small blessings,” John muttered. _I don’t even want to imagine the repercussions if someone had been shot in front of our flat._  
  
“Anthea thinks that this is retaliation on Wilkes’ behalf,” Mrs. Hudson announced, disconnecting the call. “That scientist’s broadcast will help you, but serious Pro-Earthlings are only going to ignore testimony that contradicts Wilkes’. It’s going to escalate, Anthea thinks; she wants us to go to a safe house.”  
  
“We’ve already had this argument,” John protested. “We’re not going to go underground again; Orkney was bad enough.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson sighed. “We’re not negotiating this time, John. We can’t keep you safe here, and if you stay in a centralised location eventually a protestor will get hurt as collateral damage. How are we going to protect everyone against a bomb threat? It’ll happen, if you stay here.”  
  
While John hesitated, torn between arguing his right to live in his own flat and forfeiting the point to protect innocent life, Sherlock whipped his head around to face the window, where one tendril remained tucked under the curtain. “The crowd’s essentially under control, but a child’s been injured.”  
  
“A child?” John repeated, incredulous. _Who would bring a child into that kind of mob, anyway?_ He shook his head and turned for the door. “Sherlock, my medical kit is upstairs; grab it and meet me outside,” he ordered.  
  
“Watson!” Mrs. Hudson snapped in a surprisingly strong voice. John froze instinctively. “There are dozens of people out there right now who would love to harm you in any way possible. If you step out that door, you’ll incite a riot.”  
  
Grinding his teeth together, John whirled and snarled, “What do you want me to do? Leave the kid injured when I could be helping him?”  
  
“Her,” Sherlock corrected quietly, gaze still focused on the window.  
  
Mrs. Hudson grimaced but remained firm. “If you go out there, you’ll cause more harm than good. If it’s not life-threatening, they’ll get her medical care and she’ll be fine.” Seeing John’s resolve weakening, she appealed to Sherlock. “How bad is the injury?”  
  
He tilted his head and glanced between the two of them. “It’s difficult to see from this angle,” he hedged, “but it looks like they’re attending to her ankle. Sprained, possibly broken; I can’t be sure.”  
  
“See?” Mrs. Hudson said. “Non-lethal. She’ll be fine. What would you possibly do that would make a difference before paramedics arrive to take her to a hospital?”  
  
 _It doesn’t matter; I should be doing_ something! _I can’t just let her sit out there in pain while I hide here like a coward._ Irritated with his inability to do anything useful, John slapped a hand against the wall. _“Damn it,”_ he hissed. “I just want to help!” _Why do we have to be so damned helpless?_  
  
Sherlock extended a tentative tendril and wrapped it around John’s wrist, pulling the hand away from the wall. John sighed, letting his frustration ebb, and twisted his hand so that he could brush his fingers against Sherlock’s tentacle in return. “Her mother is with her,” Sherlock reassured him, “and a few of the police officers are protecting her from the rest of the crowd.” John nodded and resigned himself to letting someone else take care of what he still thought of as his responsibility.  
  
“Anthea and Mycroft are coming to pick us up in about an hour,” Mrs. Hudson said into the brief silence. “You should pack anything you want to bring; we’ll have basic supplies and laundry facilities there.”

John didn’t move, still at war with himself on how to proceed. _I don’t want to go back to living that far under the government’s control, but I don’t want other people to pay the price of my selfishness, either._ Sherlock’s tendril undulated in John’s grip, and John looked up at him. “I don’t want to go into hiding,” John sighed. _Not any more than we already are._   
  
Sherlock nodded and turned to Mrs. Hudson. “I have an idea for a compromise,” he said, “but I’ll need to talk to Anthea about it.” Turning back to John, he added, “Go ahead and pack for now; no matter how this ends up, I agree that it would be unsafe and irresponsible for us to remain here.”   
  
_Three against one, and one of them is Sherlock._ Emphatically outvoted, John sighed and looked back at the window. He could just hear the sounds of sirens approaching. _The girl will be alright, at least._ “Okay,” he agreed. _It’s for the greater good, right?_   
  
Mrs. Hudson smiled at him comfortingly as he trudged up the stairs, outraged shouts of the protestors ringing through the walls at his back.   


* * *

The police had blocked off their section of Baker Street by the time Anthea and Mycroft arrived; John could just barely hear the furious shouts of the growing crowds of protesters at either end of the street from Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room, where he sat surrounded by three suitcases. Sherlock dripped from the upper balcony down to the ground floor and slid across the ground to press against John’s calves. Behind him, Mrs. Hudson returned from her bedroom, medicine bag in hand, and placed it on her own pile of luggage.   
  
They were waiting together like that when the car pulled to the kerb out front; Mycroft and Anthea stepped into the flat, both looking stressed. “I’ve got a safe house in Brighton and Hove waiting for us,” Anthea announced while Sherlock and Mycroft extended limbs towards each other. “The sooner we move out, the sooner we can get this whole mess cleared up.”   
  
John glanced at Sherlock, wondering if he was planning to suggest his compromise to Anthea before or after they got into the car, but Mycroft spoke up. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.” He turned to Anthea. “Sherlock wants to go to France to help the Louvre catch Lupin.” Before Anthea could respond to the plan and veto the idea, he added, “If we go along, we could take the opportunity to look into the connection between the Assurance d’Art International and the Black Lotus.”   
  
Anthea shook her head, opposition written clearly on her face. “We’re dealing with the threat of hate crimes and potential terrorist attacks, and you want me to not only keep you two in the public eye but take you to _France?!_ How is that helpful?”   
  
“The French invited us, for one,” Sherlock pointed out. “That won’t necessarily make a difference with individual citizens, but we can definitely count on the government intervening to keep us as safe as possible. It wouldn’t do for them to be responsible for any perceived harm on the only two alien ambassadors and their companions, especially after specifically requesting our presence.”   
  
“Additionally,” Mycroft added, “It would help our public image: Instead of hiding from the threat and giving it some authority – that _is_ the usual reasoning for carrying on as usual in the face of terrorism, is it not? – we’ll be offering our assistance to your people on an international scale. How can it be a bad thing to demonstrate our willingness to help everyone, regardless of nationality?”   
  
_It sure beats spending the next however many days or weeks cramped up in a safe house,_ John thought. He reminded Anthea, “And, you were so excited about finding that connection between the insurance company and the Black Lotus; how could you pass up the opportunity to get proof?”   
  
Visibly tempted, Anthea dropped her gaze to her Blackberry and stared at the blank screen while she debated. “I’ll consider it,” she granted them. “For now, however, we need to get you out of here. We’ll go to the safe house, and I’ll make a final decision there.”

Figuring that it was the best result they could reasonably hope for, John followed Mycroft and Anthea to the large car while Sherlock helped Mrs. Hudson with her luggage. They sat in tense silence as the vehicle made its way through the raucous crowd, John taking Sherlock’s hand and clutching it in his own when the alien brushed it against John’s outer thigh. _It’ll be alright,_ John tried to convey through a squeeze and a smile. _Everything will work out, somehow._   
  
Across from them, Mycroft brushed a stray strand of Anthea’s hair behind her ear, smiling at her surprised expression and capturing the hand that had been tapping anxiously at her thigh. He turned his head away but kept her fingers in his loose grip while he stared out the window. Anthea glanced at their joined hands before looking up at John, who raised an eyebrow and shrugged. _Interesting choice in timing, Mycroft, but I guess you’re about to get your answer on how compatible you two really are._   
  
Anthea’s gaze dropped, and she resolutely turned her gaze out the opposite window as she curled her fingers around Mycroft’s. From his perspective, John saw Mycroft’s lips twitch into a small smile, and he had to admit that the moment would have been shockingly romantic if Mrs. Hudson hadn’t shaken her head and chuckled under her breath.   


* * *

Perhaps it was wishful thinking that led John to only unpack what he needed for the night when they got to the safe house. Either way, he was glad he had left the rest packed when Anthea swallowed her last bite of breakfast and announced, “Alright, we’ll go to Paris.”   
  
She continued as she put away her dishes, “With the amount of media coverage you two are getting, it’ll only be a matter of days – at most – before someone tracks us down and moves the entire conflict to Brighton.” She pursed her lips. “If they’re going to find you anyway, we might as well use the media to our advantage. Sherlock, I’ll take you to France while Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson stay here and work on strategies for dealing with Sebastian and the Pro-Earthlings. After all, we won’t have to disclose our precise location to the public, and we’ll take superficial precautions to keep a low profile.”   
  
“And me?” John asked, grip flexing on the spoon in his hand. He dreaded the thought of being stuck in the safe house while Sherlock chased Lupin around Paris, but at least he’d have Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson to keep him company.   
  
“You’re going with us, of course,” Sherlock interjected before Anthea could reply. “You didn’t think I’d leave you behind, did you?”   
  
John had just enough time to give Sherlock a thankful smile before Anthea cut in, brow furrowed. “No, John is staying with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. He’s not impervious to damage like you, Sherlock; he can be hurt or worse. He’s staying here where there’s less risk.”   
  
_Wow._ John fought to suppress an injured flinch at the blunt dismissal. _Thanks for that vote of confidence. If I wasn’t already aware that I’m less than useless compared to Sherlock, I am now._   
  
Sherlock must have read the hurt in John’s bearing and expression because he was rippling slightly when he twisted in the chair to confront Anthea. “John’s presence is absolutely necessary for maintaining diplomatic relations during the investigation,” he bit out. “You’ll be busy running interviews with the insurance company; I’ll need someone to act as an intermediary with the humans I’ll be working with. John’s coming.”   
  
Anthea stared at him for several tense seconds before nodding. “I’ll arrange it,” she said, turning away. “Repack whatever you’ve unpacked already; we’re leaving today.” Behind her back, Mycroft glanced between Anthea, John and Sherlock before grimacing in apology to John and following her.   
  
They disappeared around the corner, and John’s breath rushed out of his lungs, leaving him feeling somewhat shaky. _That was…oddly intense._ He startled slightly at the human touch on his shoulder and then had to laugh at himself for being so used to Sherlock’s skin texture that human skin threw him off. Mrs. Hudson smiled at him and let her hand slid down to his elbow.

“Please don’t take it personally,” she said. “As you may have noticed, Anthea’s having trouble deciding whether she needs to be in a militant or civilian mindset. That argument came from an accumulation of stress over the last week – it has no bearing on you as a person, only on you as an asset.”  
  
“That’s part of the problem,” Sherlock broke in. His voice was unnaturally flat, but his skin was anything but. “She was ignoring his value to the situation.” John blinked as Sherlock flattened a palm against the back of John’s head and immediately evened out the violent tremors in his form. “He is, after all, the one human most versed in my species’ culture.”  
  
 _Ah,_ John realised, feeling his heart clench in disappointment. _That’s where my worth lies – it’s all about my relation to Sherlock._ He swallowed heavily. _It’s not like I’m doing a great job as an ambassador for their ideals, though. I couldn’t even keep my temper under control when dealing with Sebastian._ The pressure against the back of his skull shifted as Sherlock brushed over his hair reassuringly, and John had to acknowledge that his own stress was taking its emotional toll.  
  
“Very true,” Mrs. Hudson agreed with Sherlock, “and that’s why she’s putting so much effort into keeping him safe.” She turned her gaze back on John, and her brow creased. “Now, don’t look so put out,” she scolded. “You’re going to Paris! Enjoy yourself – as much as you can, considering.”  


* * *

It was another few hours before Anthea had made all of the arrangements for them to go to Paris, but she managed to get them a small private plane from Shoreham. The drive to the airport – interrupted with a stop to exchange their pounds for euros – was coloured with tense silence, but as the aeroplane lifted from the tarmac John couldn’t help but feel a bubble of excitement rise in his chest. _I’m going to Paris with Sherlock, and we’re going to catch a thief. God, it’s such a relief to be out of that damned flat and actually_ doing _something!_   
  
He didn’t realise he was grinning until Sherlock reached across the tiny seat and wrapped a tendril around John’s hand. The pilot had given them headsets to block out the noise inside the small aircraft, instructing them to keep chatter through the intercom to a minimum to avoid cluttering his attention while talking to Air Traffic Control; John settled with squeezing Sherlock’s hand in lieu of voicing his enthusiasm. Sherlock smiled back at him and stretched to peer at the view out the window.   
  
_Sherlock’s probably never been in this kind of situation,_ John realised. _He got to England in a piece of luggage; maybe he’s never seen the ground from the air._ John spent the rest of the flight scanning the channel waters and landscape, pointing out interesting features to Sherlock, who would then plaster himself against John’s side to see. Anthea seemed to be feeling relieved, as well, and if she occasionally glanced back at them with a small grin before turning to face forward again in the passenger seat, John didn’t point it out. _This is the closest thing to a vacation we’re getting,_ he thought, _and I’m damn well going to enjoy it._   
  
He was almost disappointed when the pilot gestured over his shoulder and warned them to put on their seatbelts for the landing. As the plane swung around to line up with the runway, Sherlock tapped John’s shoulder and pointed past him to what Anthea informed them was Le Bourget Airport. _We’re actually here,_ he boggled while the plane dipped and slid to the earth. He felt Sherlock nudge at his palm, and he obligingly wrapped his fingers around the alien’s without turning away. _This is going to be brilliant._

* * *

John clambered out of the plane after Sherlock and blinked at the suited man standing just beyond the craft’s wings. He seemed poised in a way that was eerily reminiscent of Mycroft, and John guessed that the man was a government official come to escort them. _And, of course, he’ll almost certainly speak French. I should have spent the last few hours in the safe house reviewing my French – Better yet, I should have kept up with it after secondary school._

Much to John’s surprise, the man smiled and greeted them in nearly unaccented English. “Welcome to France; my name is Cristophe Moreau, and I’ve been assigned as your guide during your stay. Should you have any concerns, I will address them.” He nodded to the plane. “Your luggage will be transported to your hotel room. If you’ll follow me, I will take you to a private room within the airport where we can discuss your plans for your stay in France.”   
  
Anthea introduced herself and remained silent while John and Sherlock followed suit. John took notice of the way Moreau’s eyes widened when he shook Sherlock’s bare hand, but to his relief that was the only reaction. It seemed to impress Anthea, too, because she smiled approvingly at Moreau as she requested, “Lead on.”   
  
He inclined his head, eyes skittering between Sherlock, Anthea and John, before turning and leading them to a shuttle. “You’ve booked rooms in the Hotel de la Place du Louvre, correct? A pragmatic choice – just across the street from the Musee du Louvre, as I’m sure you’re already aware – but on behalf of the French government I would like to offer you an exchange for a suite in the Hotel Vendome or perhaps the Four Seasons Hotel George V, if you would prefer.”   
  
John was pretty sure that pure willpower was only thing keeping his jaw from hitting the ground. _The George V? He’s offering to put us up in the_ George V?! He shook his head, feeling dazed. _I suppose this is one of the perks of travelling with a major political figure, but…wow. The George V?_ Sherlock brushed against his hand, and the contact startled him out of his shock. John grinned at Sherlock. _We could stay in the George V. This is…. This is incredible._   
  
“That’s very generous of you,” Anthea replied, “but I specifically chose the Hotel de la Place du Louvre for its proximity to the museum.” She nodded at Sherlock. “The less time they have to spend in public transit, the safer for everyone.”   
  
“Oh, mademoiselle, we will of course provide transportation through the city as needed,” Moreau said. “The safety of our guests and our citizens is our highest priority.” He shrugged. “If the distance remains an issue, however, I can assure you that the Hotel Vendome is just as high-quality as the George V and much closer. It’s less than a kilometre from the Musee du Louvre.”   
  
Anthea hesitated, considering the offer, and Sherlock glanced at John before adding his opinion. “As a further precaution, if you’ll give me permission to use another human form, John and I can avoid drawing attention.”   
  
Moreau glanced back at them, clearly intrigued, but remained silent while Anthea debated. She looked between John and Sherlock, and the lines around her eyes softened. “Alright,” she conceded, “but you’ll have to adhere to a few more safety precautions.”   
  
John’s excitement carried him through the meeting – “So, you want media attention on the fact that Mr. Holmes is assisting with the theft at the Louvre, but you don’t want details released about where you’re staying? We expected as much, and we can oblige. The Hotel Vendome will likely wish to advertise that Mr. Holmes stayed there, but we can demand silence until you depart. The privacy of the hotel’s guests is always its highest priority.” – and into the shuttle to the hotel. _I can almost forget about Sebastian and the Pro-Earthlings waiting for us back home; this feels like a real vacation._ He glanced across Sherlock to Anthea and Moreau. _Except for them, of course._   
  
Sherlock grabbed John’s hand, arresting his attention, and pointed out the window. “Look,” he demanded, face split with an eerily extended grin. “The Eiffel Tower!”

The giant spire rose above the buildings, and John craned his neck to see it better. _We’re here. We’re in Paris, away from the mobs back home, and we’re going to catch a thief. God, Sherlock, isn’t it amazing?_ Sherlock leaned across John’s seat to get a better view, and he wove an arm over John’s shoulders in the process. _I’m so glad I’m here to experience it with you._   


* * *

Moreau got them neighbouring suites on the east side of the hotel, and if John squinted from the window he could just make out the pyramid of the Louvre. “This place is amazing,” he murmured, stepping back to the centre of the room and turning a slow circle. The warm décor worked with the mid-afternoon lighting to give the entire room a soft glow; it seemed designed to emphasise the pale figure watching him from the doorway. “Don’t you agree, Sherlock?”   
  
Sherlock pushed away from the wall and moved to stand next to John. “It’s beautiful,” he agreed, not even bothering to turn his eyes away. John fought a blush and won. _Idiot; he can see from his skin. He’s not necessarily talking about what his eyes are focused on – don’t be so obvious, Watson._ Oblivious to John’s distress, Sherlock continued, “Are you going to unpack? We’ll be here for several days.”   
  
“Right. Of course.” John shook his head and collected his bags, making quick work of the clothing he’d originally packed for the safe house. _I hope Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson are alright,_ he thought, pausing after hanging up the last of his shirts. Fishing his mobile out of his pocket, he called Mycroft and hoped that he wouldn’t be interrupting anything important. To his surprise, the number was disconnected. _He must have changed his number like we did._ “Sherlock, do you know if we can get into contact with the safe house and see how they’re doing?” he called, moving on to the toiletries.   
  
“I’ll ask Anthea when she finishes unpacking next door,” Sherlock replied, voice getting clearer as he approached, “but I imagine so.” He appeared in the doorway and tilted his head at John. “If all other involved parties are amiable, would you be willing to visit the Louvre later tonight?”   
  
“I don’t see why not,” John called over his shoulder, carrying his toothbrush, razor and other necessities to the bathroom. Where he had expected a gleeful acknowledgement from Sherlock, he heard only dead silence. “Sherlock?”   
  
“Have you touched your bed yet?” Sherlock asked, voice gone flat. John felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and answered in the negative. “There’s a note.”   
  
_Shit. Who…?_ John dumped his armful onto the counter and rushed back into the bedroom, where Sherlock was examining the pillows of the bed. An innocuous slip of paper peeked up from the crack between them, and as John watched Sherlock plucked it up and unfolded it.   
  
_“Lupin,”_ he breathed, looking up at John with a hint of blurring around his eyes. “It’s a note from Lupin.”   
  
“What?” _That’s impossible. How could he have known we’d be staying here? We didn’t even know we’d be staying here!_ “What does it say?”   
  
Sherlock handed it over and stalked around the room, searching for clues. John held the note in steady hands and read,   
  
_Bienvenue en France, Messieurs Holmes et Watson!  
I find it impossible to express the utter joy I felt when I found that you would be answering my call; I can only hope that I, too, present a challenge. Oh, what a wonderful game we’ll play! Our last interaction was far too short and limited by the machinations of that Moriarty fellow, no? I look forward to capturing your full attention this time around.  
Have you figured out my little clue,_ Le Pied-Bot, _yet? No matter; it won’t make a difference in the chase itself. The affair with_ La Joconde _was such a disappointment; perhaps your presence will make this theft worth my time. They do say that art is nothing without an audience, after all.  
Oh, dear. I fear I may have rambled too long on the matter of the theft and failed my duties as your host-of-sorts. Do enjoy all that my city has to offer, if you can, and I look forward to facing you once again!  
Au revoir,  
Arsene Lupin_

“You know,” John said, voice too calm for the tension winding up his spine, “I’m starting to wonder if Lupin is the one with mind-control powers. How the _hell_ did he know we were here?”  
  
“No idea,” Sherlock bit back at him, flattening himself against the window panes to search for fingerprints or signs of forced entry, John guessed. After a few seconds, he withdrew and shook his head, chuckling. John stared at him, more than a little unnerved by the sudden mood swing. “Call Anthea and let her know that Lupin’s aware of our location,” Sherlock ordered lightly. “To be honest, though, I doubt we have anything to worry about.”  
  
“Really.” Brandishing the note, John growled, “He tracked us and managed to plant this in the –what, two hours? – since we landed and decided we would stay here. How, exactly, does this equate to ‘nothing to worry about’?”  
  
“I looked into Lupin’s history after the _Mona Lisa_ disappeared, and never has a police report mentioned him causing injuries during the heists. If anything, it seems like he takes extra caution to avoid it.” Sherlock shrugged, skin gaining definition but not quite reaching normal. “Therefore, I find it unlikely that we have anything to fear from him. This is just his way of saying, ‘The game is on.’ It’s not a threat.”  
  
“You’re going to be the death of me, I swear,” John muttered, but he was already calling Anthea on his mobile. “Yeah, Anthea? We may have a slight problem. Could you come over so we can show you?”  


* * *

Anthea was predictably shaken by the note, but she agreed that Lupin probably wasn’t a threat and that switching hotels would be pointless, considering how quickly Lupin had found them. It was still a matter of security, of course, so she called Moreau and demanded increased surveillance around their suites. He was appalled that their location had already been compromised – _“Mon dieu!_ That thief – there’s no getting around him!” – and promised to have the equipment installed the next day while everyone was out.   
  
Before she returned to her suite, Anthea helped Sherlock set up a secure connection to the safe house using webcams. “Mycroft mentioned that visual connection is more effective than just verbal, so this should help you two cope with the separation better, right?” she commented, pulling up the program.   
  
“That’s correct,” Sherlock replied, sounding surprised.   
  
A few seconds later, Mrs. Hudson appeared on the screen. “So?” she pressed, glancing between the three of them. “How is France?”   
  
“We haven’t seen much of it, yet,” Anthea replied, “but we have already had a run in with Lupin.”   
  
“Sort of,” John interjected, seeing the concern rise on Mrs. Hudson’s expression. “He left a note on my bed for Sherlock. We haven’t actually seen him in person.”   
  
“Well, then. Be safe, you three.” She glanced over her shoulder and beckoned Mycroft over. “I’ve got your brother and the two humans on webcam,” she informed him.   
  
_‘The two humans?’ That’s an interesting turn of phrase,_ John mused. Beside him, Sherlock huffed in amusement and greeted Mycroft, “How goes the planning? Is Sebastian already on his way out?”   
  
“Keep in mind that we’re attempting to predict the world’s most complicated game of chess, Sherlock,” Mycroft scolded. “We’re still listing all the variables we need to take into account.”   
  
Predictably, Anthea drew them into a debate about which to factor in and which to ignore as nonessential; John watched with a sense of bemusement as Mycroft began to dominate his side of the conversation until it was less a discussion than a dialogue between the two analysts. _If nothing else, they’re certainly getting along._ John tried to not be jealous of the easy relationship the two were falling into, but the breath of space between him and Sherlock suddenly seemed to span the width of a galaxy.

Mycroft eventually changed the topic and drew Sherlock into conversation about the French people he’d observed during the short trip from the airport to the hotel and how they compared to the British culture. It was interesting enough to hear a complete outsider’s interpretation of human nationalism that John didn’t notice the time fly by until it was nearly half past seven and his stomach grumbled. “Sorry,” he apologised to Sherlock’s half-alarmed blurs. “I didn’t have lunch.”   
  
“Now that you mention it, I am feeling a bit peckish myself,” Anthea mused. “Shall we continue this conversation tomorrow?”   
  
“Perhaps we could continue after you’ve eaten?” Mycroft prompted. “I can help you with your prep work for the insurance company, too.”   
  
“That would be welcome,” Anthea agreed. They disconnected, and Anthea fetched John a menu for room service before retiring to her suite for the night. “I have a few lists to compile before I start in on the Assurance d’Art International tomorrow,” she explained. “When you call room service, do _not_ order with your name; order with your room number and put the charge on the overall cost for the room. We’ll sort it out later, if we have to. Sherlock, you have permission to shift into another form to collect the food so that no one recognises John. Alright?” At John and Sherlock’s nods, she headed for the door. “I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning; Moreau will escort you to the Louvre, and unless you need me I’m leaving you on your own for that part of the investigation. _Be careful.”_ The door shut behind her.   
  
“Well, then. Dinner?” Sherlock suggested, motioning to the menu.   
  
John ordered horrendously expensive Coquet-A-Vin, marvelling that he _could,_ and ensconced himself with Sherlock on the sofa facing the window when it arrived. The food was delicious, of course, but John found himself focusing less on the taste and more on the oil-plastic arm draped over his shoulders. Swallowing a bite, he commented, “Lovely night.”   
  
It was, too. The lights of the city – so similar and yet so different from London – twinkled and sparkled in a mad dance, and directly in the centre of it the Louvre’s pyramid cast a dim glow on the surrounding air. John settled in against Sherlock, who obligingly stretched a hand out to dim the lights, and forked up the last of his chicken. _I’m with Sherlock Holmes in a five-star hotel in Paris, getting ready to foil what may be the world’s greatest thief. This moment couldn’t get any more perfect._   
  
Of course, that was when Sherlock curled in closer and twisted the hand on John’s shoulders up to card through the hair at the nape of John’s neck. John swallowed the bite in his mouth, throat feeling inexplicably tight, and forced his muscles to stay relaxed. The soothing brush against his neck sent sparks of arousal down his spine, and John shifted anxiously. _Don’t, John. Just don’t. Don’t go there._ He pulled in a silent breath, forcing his attraction down.   
  
The hand on his neck froze, and John felt his stomach drop in panic as Sherlock practically threw himself away from John and paced the room, skin rippling violently. _Fuck, fuck, fuck! Well done, Watson; he’s figured it out and now you’ve ruined_ everything – _how are you going to face him, now?_   
  
Sherlock was talking. It took a moment for John to focus past the blind terror, and then he felt an entirely different wave of shock hit him when he registered what Sherlock was saying. “What do I have to do, John? You love me – I know you love me; I’ve felt it for _months_ – but you keep forcing it down. _Why,_ John? Is it because I’m not human? That’s what you told Mycroft, but you agreed to help him. You even feel _proud_ and _jealous_ of him. So, what’s different about us?” He stopped directly in front of John, and loomed over him. _“Why do you feel so guilty about loving me?”_   
  
John stared, aware that he was gaping, and Sherlock rippled heavier in frustration before latching onto John’s face to hold him steady. John fumbled, thoughts thrown into confusion, and ended up doing nothing but staring back into Sherlock’s darkened eyes. _What – how –_ ‘months?’ _– he knows he knows – Oh, God, what am I supposed to do? – Nothing – Doesn’t love me back –_

“ _Oh,”_ Sherlock breathed, ripples fading almost instantly. “You’ve thought that before.” John had just enough time to wonder, _‘Thought that’?_ before Sherlock continued, “John. How could you have missed it? I love you.” He gave John’s head a light shake. “Idiot; I’ve been practically throwing myself at you for weeks.”  
  
 _…what?_ A tiny seed of hope blossomed in John’s chest, and he struggled to contain it. _No. I can’t have been denying this for so long, only to turn out so wrong. I must have misunderstood._ Except, Sherlock was gripping his cheeks and glaring at him. “Don’t. Don’t you _dare,_ John Watson; I never want to feel you deny hope like that again. Do you understand me?”  
  
The last pieces clicked together in John’s mind, and the world tilted into a new configuration that he hadn’t allowed himself to consider. “You can read my thoughts,” he realised. _How long? Oh, God, how long has he known exactly what I was thinking?!_  
  
Sherlock, perhaps reading the growing panic on John’s face – _No, reading it from my_ mind, _God…!_ – blinked and tilted his head, eyes blurring. “I told you, back at the railway. Remember, when you found those symbols on the wall? I told you that I could feel just a hint of your emotions.” He shrugged. “It got stronger as time went by.” The implication of John’s surprise seemed to strike him, and he winced. “I thought you knew,” he murmured.  
  
“I thought it was just wishful thinking,” John gasped, feeling like his chest was about to implode.  
  
“John?” And, Christ, now Sherlock was blurring and paling and how did they get from that perfect evening to _here_ so quickly? “John, breathe. Slower.” His hands were still on John’s cheeks, he could still feel John’s panic, still see _everything_ and John knew that he had few secrets from Sherlock but to find out so abruptly that he had _none_ – “John, I need you to focus. _Breathe._ It’s okay; I already told you I love you. What are you so worried about?”  
  
Absurdly, impossibly, _that_ was what brought John back to himself. After a few stuttering breaths, he managed to collect himself to inventory: _I’m worried that I have no privacy in my head anymore_ – Sherlock flinched and tore his hands away, but John reached up and towed them back – _and I’m worried that you’ve heard or felt things that you should hate me for_ – “Never,” Sherlock whispered – _and I’m terrified that someday I’ll – we’ll – come to regret this._ The pressure against his temples increased, and Sherlock hissed, _“Never.”_  
  
“How do you know?” John asked, desperately wanting to believe that it was true but reminded of his warnings for Mycroft. _How can you be sure? We’re so different._  
  
Sherlock ducked his head down to press their foreheads together, and John felt his panic fading under a soothing warmth that spread from his chest to his fingertips, still clutching Sherlock’s hands. “I know,” Sherlock said, “because I love you, and you love me, and we’re here to support each other.”  
  
“There’s so much that could go wrong,” John murmured, eyes slipping shut as he leaned into Sherlock. “The Pro-Earthlings, Sebastian…”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “but there’s so much more that could go _right.”_ And, just for a blinding, brilliant second, John allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to spend the rest of his life with Sherlock.  
  
 _Kiss me,_ he demanded, and Sherlock brought their mouths together in a chaste, close-lipped kiss, devastating for its plain simplicity. _This is real; it’s actually happening._ “I love you,” John breathed against Sherlock’s lips, trying out the words. He decided that it felt terrifying and exhilarating and absolutely wonderful. “I’m sorry I was such an idiot about this,” he added, opening his eyes and quirking his lips up in a wry grin. Even now, his heart was pounding with the residual adrenaline from his panic earlier. _And, maybe a touch of excitement for the future?_

“It’s alright,” Sherlock replied, brushing a hand through John’s hair. “I can forgive you that.” He twisted and returned to his seat beside John, shifting his grip so that he was wrapped securely around John. They would still have to discuss all that Sherlock had seen in John’s mind before this, but John decided it could wait for the morning. Sherlock hummed and stroked a hand over John’s arm, staring past him at the twinkling lights of the city. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” he asked, pressing a kiss to John’s temple.  
  
“Yes,” John agreed, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s. He marveled at how radically his world had changed in the last fifteen minutes – and how much it remained the same. “It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your reading enjoyment, [Sherlock's POV during the cuttlefish scene in Chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23616901).


	13. The Heist-Harbinger's Guide to the Galaxy

Although John had gone to bed alone, the next morning he woke with the majority of Sherlock’s body mass wrapped around him. Before John could as much as shift, Sherlock stretched a tendril up to trace John’s lips. John twitched at the contact, unusually intimate even for Sherlock. _What – oh!_ He froze, the events of the night before flooding into his awareness, and blinked. _He said he loves me. And, I said I love him._   
  
After a few seconds of John’s muddled thoughts, Sherlock withdrew and reformed beside him. “You’re not going to have another panic attack, are you?” he asked, eyes blurring.   
  
John sucked in a couple of deep breaths and rubbed his eyes as he sat up, forcing himself into a more conscious state. “No,” he decided. “I don’t think so.”   
  
“Good.” Without another word, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him.   
  
Once the shock had faded away, John found himself focusing on the sensations of the kiss. The night before, he’d been distracted by the novelty of the entire experience; this time, his still-drowsy mind took note of the unusual experience of kissing a non-human being. The oil-plastic texture was especially distracting, and no matter how they shifted, Sherlock’s lips seemed just a little too firm to pass for human. Curious, John laced his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and lapped at the seam of his lips.   
  
_Okay, not doing that again,_ he thought a few seconds later. Sherlock was staring at him with a blanked expression, and John couldn’t really blame him for his surprise: He’d practically launched himself across the bed, scrubbing furiously at his lips and scraping his tongue against his teeth to rid himself of the taste. _To be fair, he tastes horrible. I was_ not _expecting that._   
  
“…John?” Sherlock asked, features shifting from blank to blurred.   
  
“Sorry; sorry. I was just – surprised.” John shook his head and slid back to Sherlock’s side. “If it’s alright by you, though, I think I’d prefer to avoid tongue action in the future.”   
  
Sherlock was still blurring horribly, so John smiled and took his hand. Immediately, the blurring faded. “You’re not angry with me,” Sherlock analysed. _Right; his telepathy works on me now._ “But, you’re feeling a strong aversion – to kissing me? No, to using your tongue specifically.” He tilted his head, and John felt his own cheeks get warmer. “If it’s because I taste bad, I promise that I won’t be offended.”   
  
John huffed a laugh – because honestly, who was he kidding even thinking he could fool Sherlock? – and shook his head, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s. “You taste bad,” he admitted.   
  
“It must be revolting to make you react so strongly,” Sherlock mused. “I was afraid you’d fall off the bed.” When John glanced up to gauge his reaction, Sherlock was smiling. _Teasing, then._   
  
“Absolutely horrible,” John agreed lightly, watching to make sure that he didn’t actually offend Sherlock. “Possibly the worst thing I’ve ever tasted in my life – and I had some pretty nasty foods in the Army.”   
  
“I remember.” Sherlock brought his other hand up and carded it through John’s hair, rising to press a kiss to John’s forehead. “We’ll have to warn Mycroft.”   
  
“As much as I love your brother, please don’t bring him up in the bedroom again,” John groaned. “It reminds me too much of Sebastian right now.” Sherlock tensed against him, and he sighed. _And, that rather effectively killed the mood, didn’t it?_ “I should get dressed.”   
  
He started to pull away, but Sherlock wrapped an extra tentacle around him and held him close. “You are not leaving me with Sebastian as the last thought on your mind,” he growled. John had just enough time to blink before Sherlock twisted and dropped his mouth to John’s collarbones.

“ _Oh,”_ John breathed, less at the contact on his clavicle – Sherlock wasn’t so much sucking as nuzzling, anyway – than at the warmth that surged through his chest. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and clutched at his back, feeling unaccountably shaken. _Is this a part of the telepathy?_ he wondered, remembering the same sensation from the night before. “Sherlock, what is that?” His voice came out breathy.  
  
“Love,” Sherlock replied, mouth still pressed against John’s collarbone. “My love, for you.”  


* * *

When John emerged from the bedroom showered and fully dressed, he found a tray with a croissant and a bowl of fruit on the table. “Breakfast?” No matter how many times Sherlock fed him, John was never used to the feeling of care those gestures inspired. In retrospect, he really had been woefully blind to Sherlock’s rather obvious affection.   
  
“We have a long day ahead of us,” Sherlock replied from the sofa, where he was flipping through sites on his laptop. That, the coat, two sets of real clothes and several tools for his work were all that Sherlock had bothered to bring. With his three suitcases, John was vaguely jealous.   
  
He grabbed the tray of food and settled next to Sherlock, watching the screen over the alien’s shoulder while he ate. A second later, he shifted to accommodate the largish tentacle that wrapped almost absent-mindedly around his waist. “What are you looking at?” he asked, seeing that the text was entirely in French. _Definitely should have stuck with French after secondary school._   
  
“Lupin,” Sherlock replied shortly, flipping tabs as he reached the end of one page. “Past thefts, methodology; anything I can find about him, really.”   
  
“Ah.” John tried one of the strawberries and immediately reached for more. _Delicious!_ “And? Anything useful?”   
  
Sherlock rippled, causing John to twitch at the mildly ticklish sensation against his sides, and huffed a breath in irritation. “Pages and pages of speculation, but hardly any real facts. Did you know that they actually had Lupin under arrest at one point? He convinced the officer in charge of his cases – a _Capitaine_ Ganimard – that he was an innocent man, and his fingerprints didn’t match those of the man they’d arrested, so they let him walk right out the front door. The papers were ablaze for weeks, and Ganimard almost lost his job. If it were anyone besides Lupin, he probably would have.” Sherlock snarled and closed yet another tab. “All the stories romanticise Lupin’s escape and ignore the hows and whys; no one’s figured out how Lupin fooled the fingerprint test, and, by the looks of these articles, no one’s really tried!” He shoved the laptop away and flopped back against John’s uninjured shoulder. “Useless.”   
  
John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, smoothing down the ripples with his palm. “That’s frustrating,” he agreed. “Is Ganimard still in charge of anything Lupin-related?”   
  
“Yes. I’ll ask Moreau to arrange a meeting with him in the next couple of days.” Sherlock sighed, relaxing into John’s touch. “Good morning,” he greeted, a touch wryly.   
  
“And to you,” John returned, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s hair. The strands shifted and caressed John’s cheeks, and John grinned in amusement. “Is this the dreaded ‘morning after’?” he teased. “Seems pretty tame, to me.”   
  
Sherlock tilted his head so that John could see his expression, eyebrow raised and eyes glittering. Once again, John was struck by how well Sherlock camouflaged himself as human. “Would you prefer wilder?” Sherlock shot back, suggestively twitching his tentacle against John’s waist.   
  
Humming, John pretended to deliberate between his choices, but Sherlock snorted and turned his face into John’s neck, limbs settling against John’s. _What? – Oh._ “That’s cheating,” John complained. “You’re not allowed to read my mind when I’m trying to mislead you.”   
  
“If you say so,” Sherlock murmured into John’s collarbone.   
  
“How does that work, anyway?” John asked, curious. He broke off a piece of the croissant and nibbled on it. _Can you hear all my thoughts and feel all my emotions? Seems like that would get distracting,_ he thought as loudly as he could.

“It would get distracting, if you constantly projected like that,” Sherlock acknowledged – and, even though he’d been expecting it, hearing Sherlock respond to the thoughts in John’s head was still jarring. “But, for the most part, I can only feel your surface emotions and catch specific words or images that you’re focusing on.” He shrugged. “For example, you’re currently feeling comfortable with a touch of unease – the new relationship, I assume? – and delight at the taste and texture of the croissant.” At John’s surprise, he elaborated, “You had a rather vivid mental image of it in your mind.”  
  
 _Wow._ Swallowing the bite, John pressed, “Anything else?” He tamped down the anxiety that wanted to rise at the thought of inviting Sherlock any farther into his head and heart. _I trust him._  
  
“Excitement – for the case? – and love,” Sherlock replied, “but that’s always there.” He smiled and stretched up to press a kiss to John’s forehead before reaching for the laptop and returning to his research.  


* * *

Anthea knocked on their door at exactly ten o’clock. “Good morning,” she greeted them. “Moreau is escorting you to the Louvre at eleven; until then, I want to establish that you know what you’re doing and won’t cause a diplomatic incident.”   
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and shivered lightly but clearly thought better of contradicting her, present events being what they were. He collected his coat and a pair of gloves before sitting beside John on the sofa. Anthea made herself comfortable in one of the armchairs and walked them through basic etiquette while dealing with Moreau, the manager of the Louvre, the French workers in the Louvre and any tourists or Parisians they might interact with.   
  
“Not that I want you seeking contact with passersby,” she hastily added. “Now, John: I need you to mediate for Sherlock. That’s why you’re here; if you realise he’s about to do something that may offend the humans you’re working with, you _must step in._ Sherlock, listen to what he says and don’t go running off on your own.”   
  
John was saved from having to respond by Moreau’s timely entrance. “ _Bonjour,_ ” he greeted. “I see you are already preparing for the day; good.” He tilted his head and ran his eyes over both John and Sherlock. “However, I hope you have better disguises than that.”   
  
“That would be the next thing to discuss,” Anthea agreed. “I’m in favour of allowing Sherlock another form to use while in public so as to avoid attention. We can use a simple hat-and-sunglasses disguise for John.”   
  
Moreau glanced at John’s face and nodded. “What form will Monsieur Holmes take, so that I know how to find him?” he prodded.   
  
Sherlock blinked and transformed himself into a portly businessman, draping his coat over his shoulders. “Will this be adequate?” he asked, voice closer to John’s range than his norm.   
  
The poorly-hidden expression of shock on Moreau’s face was startling, if only because John had expected him to be better at hiding his reactions. _I’m too used to Anthea and Mycroft, I suppose._ “More than adequate,” Moreau replied, and at least his voice remained steady. “If you’ll collect the necessary accessories, Dr. Watson, we can leave for the Louvre now.”   


* * *

The Louvre was intimidating in its size and grandeur, and John knew that he was gaping as Moreau drove past and into the underground parking structure. _How can we possibly keep a building of that size secure from a thief like Lupin?_ Moreau parked the car, and John shook his head incredulously.   
  
As John and Sherlock alit from the car, Moreau informed them of their itinerary. “The President-Director will meet us in the pyramid structure. His name is Dominique Delacroix, and he’s very eager for your assistance. Do you have any questions before I introduce you to him?”   
  
“No, thank you,” Sherlock replied. Moreau nodded and directed them through the passageway to the base of the pyramid, where a suited man waved them over. _That must be Delacroix._ The man shook Moreau’s hand, waiting for Moreau to introduce everyone before he nodded and smiled.   
  
“Welcome to the Louvre,” Delacroix greeted in a heavy French accent, gesturing them into the pyramidal structure. “Thank you for coming; I understand you’ve been running into some trouble in the UK.”

“True enough,” Sherlock agreed. “Thank you for inviting us; it’s an honour to be of service to such an impressive museum.”  
  
The overly-polite behaviour was so unlike Sherlock that John was worried that he’d strained the muscles in his neck in the effort to _not_ whip around and gape. _Then again, this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this, is it? He acted like a yuppie to get into Van Coon’s apartment; now he’s acting like it’s the Louvre doing_ him _the favour._ Judging from the expressions on Delacroix and Moreau’s faces, it was working.  
  
“No, Monsieur Holmes; the honour is entirely ours,” Delacroix demurred. “Monsieur Moreau, shall we part ways?” Moreau nodded, informing them that he would return to pick them up at six o’clock, and left. Delacroix dipped into a shallow bow toward John and Sherlock and said, “Please, follow me, and I will show you _Le Pied-Bot._ ” As he turned toward the escalator, deliberately leaving a space for John to walk between himself and Sherlock, he continued, “I must confess that I’ve no idea why Lupin would target the painting. There are far more valuable works in the Louvre. All of our curators agree the piece is a lovely representation of its genre, which is why it hangs here; but, there are so many other prizes worth a great deal more.”  
  
Sherlock hummed but didn’t offer an opinion. “What security measures do you have in place?” he asked instead.  
  
“The painting’s frame is secured to the wall with several security hangers, and it has alarms wired for both proximity and movement around the painting itself,” Delacroix recited. “The room contains three closed-circuit security cameras, which cover all exits. For the Louvre as a whole, we employ more than one thousand security officers, who are assigned to either a specific hall or a patrol route through the entire museum. Our CCTV is manned twenty-four hours a day, and we have patrols walking the museum at all hours of the night.” He went on to cover the more advanced motion and heat detectors, and the even more modern measures involving lasers and technology John had only seen in action films.  
  
They passed out of the escalator into a hall, and Delacroix led them up a flight of stairs. He continued the narration, gesturing at the exhibits visible through the entranceway. “This is the Denon Wing, where the _Mona Lisa_ hangs – sorry, hung – a floor above us. _Le Pied-Bot_ is a few rooms west.” He took them up to the first floor and guided them through a throng of tourists who seemed by turns downtrodden and excited. _Mourning the loss of the_ Mona Lisa _and preparing for the return of Arsene Lupin, no doubt,_ John mused.  
  
Sherlock hesitated at the entrance, looking over the crowded halls, and suggested, “Could we perhaps return for a detailed examination on another day after hours?” He was doing an admirable job of hiding it, but John could see that his hair was losing definition. _It’s just like when we took the Tube to find Johanna Flahave: There are too many people, and he starts to panic that someone will touch him and realise that he’s not human._ “I feel that our time would be better-served if we focused on areas that are less crowded.”  
  
“Of course,” Delacroix agreed, clearly puzzled but ignoring it. He spun and led them back to the staircase. “The day before Lupin has promised to extract the piece we will remove the painting and place it in our restoration rooms, located in the lower ground floor.” John followed Sherlock down the flight of stairs, subtly using his body to form a physical barrier against the crowds. Sherlock shot him a thankful smile before refocusing on Delacroix’s words.

“The restoration rooms are heavily guarded,” Delacroix informed them as they continued down a second flight of stairs. He pulled out a key card and swiped it. “In order to get in, you have to have the correct pass code for a specific card.” He pressed a series of numbers into the key pad beside the door, and after a few seconds it opened smoothly to reveal a security guard standing about a metre inside. “Then, there are the security guards. We have one at the entrance” – He nodded to the guard, who nodded back – “and several more walking the length of the restoration room when there are no other employees present.”  
  
As they stepped fully into the long, cluttered room, John saw several people leaning over benches, examining minute details in paintings or sculptures. Many of them glanced up and gave John and Sherlock curious looks before noticing Delacroix and turning back to their work. _They’re very aware of their surroundings, then. That’s good_.  
  
“The painting will be stored in a vault, here,” Delacroix said, motioning to what looked like a large metal freezer. “It is a steel casing four centimetres thick bolted into the ground, wall and ceiling. Any attempt to open the vault with the wrong code will cause it to sound an alarm and lock down for thirty minutes. Attempting to force it open has the same effect.” He gestured to the wall behind them and added, “And, of course, we have CCTV cameras focused on the vault and scanning the rest of the restoration room at all times.”  
  
 _This is impressively high-tech,_ John thought, somewhat dazed. _I mean, really. It’s incredible. With this kind of security system, how did Lupin manage to steal the_ Mona Lisa _in the first place?_  
  
Apparently, Sherlock had similar concerns. “Have investigations revealed how Lupin achieved his earlier theft?”  
  
Sighing, Delacroix shook his head and led them back to the main halls. “No, unfortunately. The lights did go out for several seconds – Lupin cut the main power – and by the time the emergency generator came on the _Mona Lisa_ had disappeared. We have decreased the delay in engaging our backup power supply as a result.”  
  
“What kind of security system was set up for the _Mona Lisa_?” John asked, caught by the rhythm of question-and-answer. Sherlock blinked at him and smiled, brushing their fingertips together almost accidentally, and Delacroix answered as easily as if Sherlock had asked.  
  
“It is – _was_ – protected by bullet-proof glass, several very sensitive alarms, multiple security cameras and approximately three security guards at the time of the theft. The bullet-proof glass pane was lying on the ground, undamaged, when the lights came back on, and later examination showed that the fastenings had been removed beforehand.” He grimaced, and John took a moment to pity whoever had been responsible for maintaining the case. “The security guards were preoccupied with controlling the crowd and preventing panic immediately following the theft, but I doubt it would have made a difference. The CCTV showed no suspicious behaviour, unsurprisingly: Lupin is far too good an actor for that.”  
  
“But, you contained the crowd and detained guests to the Louvre, correct?” Sherlock pressed. John considered giving a subtle reprimand for the implication of incompetence, but he had to agree that if the Louvre had just let its patrons walk out after the _Mona Lisa_ ’s theft it deserved a bit of mockery.  
  
“Of course,” Delacroix retorted, looking only vaguely insulted, thankfully. “With the help of nearly our entire staff, we searched every person’s belongings before they walked out the door. When the _Mona Lisa_ was stolen in 1911, it was smuggled under a janitor’s frock, did you know? We weren’t going to make the same mistake twice.” He sighed, leading them through the hall to a staircase, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “We checked every man, woman and child. No one had it. Lupin must have found a hidden exit somewhere or hidden it someplace in the museum to retrieve later; though with the increased security, that would be even more difficult than making away with it immediately.”

“A hidden exit?” John repeated, feeling like he was being tossed into a bad mystery thriller. _With this level of security, you expect me to believe that Lupin snuck out of a secret passage?_  
  
Delacroix shrugged. “It’s not impossible, considering the history of the Louvre. The building was originally designed as a fortress and later remodelled into a palace; after the theft in 1911, investigations uncovered several hidden passages within the walls of the Louvre. It’s not a difficult stretch to imagine that – despite our efforts – we’ve still missed a few more.”  
  
 _Fair enough,_ John conceded. Sherlock continued to quiz Delacroix on the security measures, including the security guards themselves, as Delacroix opened a security door leading to the second floor and guided them through a series of offices. In his office, Delacroix bid them sit and pulled several files from his desk. “These are the requirements for working as a security officer,” he said, handing Sherlock one file, “and this is a list of maintenance work done on our security system in the last month. That should get you up to speed. I believe you already have documentation on our permanent staff, but please let me know if there is anything else you require.”  
  
“There simply isn’t enough time to interview every member of your staff, but I’ll meet with as many of the new employees and outside contractors as possible,” Sherlock replied as he took the pile of files from Delacroix’s hands. “The floor plans for the Louvre, however, will be absolutely necessary if I’m to figure out how Lupin plans to escape.”  
  
“Of course; I’ll lend you a copy for the duration of your stay.”  
  
That settled, Sherlock flipped open the files and began reading the documents at his usual super-human pace. Observing Delacroix’s startled look, John drew the Frenchman’s attention away from Sherlock with further questions about some of the high-tech gadgetry in use by the museum.  


* * *

After several hours of intensive review on the security system with only a quick break for lunch, Delacroix led them to the security room and showed them the video footage of the theft. Like he’d said, there wasn’t much to see. Patrons to the Louvre shuffled through the packed hall, cramming themselves against the rope barrier separating them from the _Mona Lisa_ , and then the image went dark. “Our emergency generators turned the lights back on almost exactly a minute later,” Delacroix explained, “but the _Mona Lisa_ was already gone.”   
  
The lights flashed on to show a panicked crowd already rushing out of the room while the security officers regained control. The pane of glass was lying on the ground directly in front of the painting’s alcove, behind the rope barrier. John’s eyes flickered over the screen, searching for Lupin, but the room evacuated too quickly for him to notice anything amiss. “And, you said that you searched everyone before they left the building?” he verified.   
  
“Of course. We must have searched Lupin, but he passed inspection and walked out.”   
  
Sherlock turned the video back to just after the lights went out and played it back in slow motion. “Where is he? He can’t have grabbed the painting and escaped the room in less than a minute; he must be here… _there_ .” Sherlock paused the video and pointed out a single figure, blending perfectly into the crowd. “The pixilation makes it difficult to tell, but I’m almost certain that’s him. See the tiny bulge under his coat? It’s the painting; the _Mona Lisa_ is painted on wood panel, so it protruded against the fabric of his coat. He brushed right past one of the security officers.”   
  
“But, where did he go after that?” John pressed. “It doesn’t matter where he was when the lights came on; what matters is where he went _after that_ .”   
  
“One moment,” Sherlock requested, rewinding the footage to moments before the lights went out. He pointed out the man, this time on the other side of the crowd. “There he is. Look: He tenses just before the lights go out. That’s definitely him.” He turned to Delacroix. “How did he knock out the power?”

“A disguise,” Delacroix spat. “He dressed up as a maintenance worker the night before and sabotaged the main lines with a time-delayed charge. It caused surprisingly little damage, but it was enough to take out the lights and some of the moving pieces in the security system. We didn’t have that area under video surveillance then, but we did see him walking through the halls to get there and back when we looked later.” He gestured at the security officers and barked an order in French; they scrambled to Delacroix’s side and nodded deferentially as he replayed the tapes and spoke rapidly. “I’m asking them to search through the nearby surveillance videos to track the man you’ve identified as Lupin after he left the _Salle de Etats._ ”  
  
“That will have to do.” Sherlock glanced at the clock and called for an end to the session, promising to return throughout the week. Delacroix gave them his private number and the promised floor plans in response, and he wished them well as he escorted them back to the pyramid where Moreau was waiting to return them to the hotel.

* * *

“I’ve released news of your assistance on the Lupin case to the press,” Moreau informed them when he dropped them off at their room. “It should be on the air within the next hour, if it isn’t already. As we agreed, I kept your location private. We’ve implied that you may not even be in Paris for the investigation, though most people will realise you must be here.”   
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, already distracted with inspecting the additions to their security. John watched as he wandered the room, examining seemingly random points on the windows. “I assume that this is the improved security you promised?”   
  
“Yes; we installed several motion sensors around all access points to the room.” Moreau motioned back at the hall and the few guards they’d passed on their way in. “The guards have personal alerts set to go off whenever the sensors are triggered; if they go off, the guards will first knock to check whether you set them off by accident and proceed to investigate if there is no response.”   
  
Sherlock nodded and dismissed the topic, turning to his laptop. “I’d like to meet with _Capitaine_ Ganimard sometime in the next few days. Tomorrow, if he’s not too busy.” John winced at the demanding tone, and Sherlock glanced up at him. He sighed and turned back to Moreau. “You are in charge of arranging our schedule, correct?” Sherlock endeavoured to sound less imperious.   
  
“That’s correct,” Moreau agreed, sounding amused. “I will set an appointment, and if you’ll give me your mobile phone’s number I’ll call you with the information.” Sherlock gave him the number, and Moreau left them.   
  
John hesitated in the doorway for a moment before shaking his head and sitting beside Sherlock on the sofa. “What are you looking at?” he asked, catching a glimpse of the multiple tabs of French on Sherlock’s laptop.   
  
“The warning notes Lupin sent to the Louvre,” he replied shortly, “and pictures of _Le Pied-Bot._ We know he chose the painting for a reason; we just don’t know what that reason is. If he’s leaving hints with his choice in targets, he might be leaving hints with his phrasing, too.”   
  
“Ah.” John brushed a hand over Sherlock’s hair and leaned against him. Sherlock hummed and formed another tendril, which he draped over John’s shoulders. While it was unbelievably comforting to just relax against his – boyfriend? It seemed such a mundane term for someone like Sherlock – John quickly found himself getting bored with watching French speed across the page. “This may be a horrible idea,” he commented, reaching for the remote, “but I’m going to watch the local news.” _Might as well get an idea of what we’ll have to deal with while we’re here._

The first station was, of course, in French, but the hotel had thankfully subscribed to the local English-speaking news channel. The headline story was Sherlock’s presence in Paris, to John’s complete lack of surprise. As he’d expected, public opinion appeared to be divided as to whether that was a good thing. The fervour with which the Pro-Aliens cheered for Sherlock, however, came as a surprise. It was almost like watching teenagers at a pop idol’s concert. _Rather creepy, actually, considering that it’s my boyfriend they’re talking about._   
  
The Pro-Earthlings reacted just how John had predicted, though: Those who were vocal enough to call in complained about the “idiotic officials” who had invited Sherlock into France.   
  
Anthea showed up halfway through one of the Pro-Earth rants, arms weighted down with a box of files. “Well?” she prompted, ignoring the programme and setting the box on a side table. “How was the Louvre?”   
  
John muted the news and twisted in Sherlock’s hold to grin at her. “It’s beautiful,” he commented.   
  
Sherlock shrugged. “If it were anyone but Lupin, I’d call this theft impossible,” he told Anthea. “As it is, I’ve no idea how Lupin’s actually going to pull it off.” He rippled lightly, closing the last tab on his browser. “And, his notes aren’t any help at all.”   
  
“How about you?” John asked, grabbing the hotel’s dinner menu and scanning it. “How goes your investigation?”   
  
Clearly, Anthea had had much more luck than them; she outlined the methods she’d used during interviews with the personnel at the insurance company and described the results she’d found. “So far, I haven’t found the mole, but I’ve ruled out at least a quarter of my previous suspects.” She shook her head and turned to leave, commenting, “I’m going to get my laptop so we can call the safe house; I’ll be back in a few minutes.”   
  
Mycroft was excited to see them, a clear contrast to Mrs. Hudson’s exhausted gaze. “Are you alright?” John blurted upon seeing her.   
  
“Of course, dear; I just didn’t sleep very well last night,” she replied. “Mycroft and I were up later than I’m used to, compiling our list of variables.”   
  
“The good news is that we finished,” Mycroft interjected. “We were just sitting down to begin calculations when you called.”   
  
“Excellent,” Anthea agreed. “Things are going well, here; I’ve made some excellent headway with the insurance company.”   
  
“Speak for yourself,” Sherlock grumbled. “Lupin’s theft is making _no sense._ ” He rippled and shook his head. “What does he think he’s going to do? Walk in, pick up the painting and stroll right back out? There’s no feasible way to steal this thing!” John pressed his fingers into the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and the ripples subsided.   
  
“And yet, he’s already pulled off one of the great crimes in history by stealing the Mona Lisa. But, never mind that: I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Mrs. Hudson encouraged him. “Sometimes, you just have to take a step back from everything – look at it from a different perspective.”   
  
“How is everything there?” John asked, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder. “No problems, I hope?” _That press release should have drawn the media’s focus here, but you can never be too sure…_   
  
“None so far,” Mycroft said, attention already drifting back to Anthea, much to John’s amusement. “Now, you mentioned that you’ve made headway? How is that part of the investigation going?”   
  
John hid a grin as Mycroft monopolised Anthea’s attention – and the video call – once again. _He’s being so obvious, but it’s also kind of cute,_ he thought. Sherlock glanced at him, eyebrow raised, and John shrugged. _I’ve got you, now; I don’t need to feel jealous of Mycroft getting Anthea anymore._ Sherlock smiled, and the back of his neck moulded against John’s hand.   
  
To no one’s surprise – including Mrs. Hudson, if her tolerant smile was anything to go by – Anthea ended up carrying the laptop back to her room to continue her conversation with Mycroft in private. John watched her go and waited until the door had closed behind her to curl an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “I think they’re actually going to make it work,” he decided. _They’re certainly engrossed in each other enough._

Sherlock threaded his fingers through John’s and nodded. “Mycroft is going to try everything in his power,” he agreed. “He loves her.” His features blurred slightly. “And, I think he might be feeling lonely, now that we only see each other in the company of you or Anthea.”   
  
“Oh.” John brushed his thumb over Sherlock’s fingers, feeling guilty. “He’s not just jumping into a relationship because he feels disconnected from you, is he?” _I’d be happy to accommodate him; if he needed it, I’d gladly step out of the room and let you two reconnect in private._   
  
“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “I just told you that he loves her.” He shook his head and picked up the menu John had dropped back on the table. “Mycroft will be alright; I’m watching out for him. Now, did you decide what you wanted to eat?”   


* * *

Sherlock sent John to bed later that night with a gentle press of his lips to John’s forehead; the next morning, John awoke to kisses on his eyelids. “Good morning,” he murmured, twisting and bringing a hand up to run through Sherlock’s hair. The kisses stopped, and he opened his eyes to Sherlock’s grin. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but what’s with the wake-up call?”   
  
“Moreau texted the information for our appointment with Ganimard,” Sherlock replied, slipping straight into business. “We’re supposed to leave in an hour. I thought you might like the time to take a shower.”   
  
“Are you telling me that I stink?” John teased, already pulling himself out of the ridiculously soft bed. _I’m going to miss that when we leave._   
  
“Now, how would I know that?” Sherlock retorted, balancing John when he wavered in his early-morning stupor. “I haven’t got any olfactory sense.”   
  
_Right. No taste or smell; I’d forgotten._ John stepped past Sherlock into the bathroom, and he emerged twenty minutes later feeling like he’d scrubbed off even the residue of the Pro-Earthlings’ sentiments from London. Sherlock was waiting for him in the sitting room with a plate of fruit and a croissant – same as the day before – though he barely had time to scarf it down before Moreau appeared to escort them to the Prefecture of Police.   
  
_Capitaine_ Ganimard’s office was located on the second floor, and this time Moreau stayed with them during their meeting. “Welcome,” Ganimard greeted them in an accent stronger than Delacroix’s. “Have a seat, _s’il vous plait._ ”   
  
After passing through their pleasantries, Sherlock started them off: “What is your impression of Arsene Lupin? What of his methods and means?”   
  
Ganimard’s jaw twitched. “Lupin is clever, devilish in the ways he slips our grasps. His methods? His methods range from carrying out intricately organized schemes to using his disguises to walk out with the target. None of his plans should work – they’re all too detailed or too simple – but they do; _that_ is Lupin’s method.” He shook his head, smiling slightly, and leaned back in his chair. “He makes the impossible probable.”   
  
Sherlock rippled lightly, and John jumped in before he could complain that Ganimard’s impression wasn’t useful at all. “What about his previous thefts? Are there any parallels to the current case? We’ve only dealt with him once before.” _And that was a small part of a much bigger mystery._   
  
Pulling a stack of files from his desk, Ganimard proceeded to run them through several of Lupin’s previous cases. To John’s surprise, Ganimard had proposed Lupin’s involvement in several cases that seemed completely unrelated. “You think Lupin stole the Countess d’Andillot’s black pearl?” John queried, fighting to keep his disbelief hidden. _That case has been open for over a month; I remember reading about it before Moriarty sent the first pip._ “But, the countess was murdered. I thought that Lupin was nonviolent.”   
  
“Oh, Lupin himself is nonviolent,” Ganimard agreed, “but that doesn’t mean his accomplices are. I’m certain that Lupin is berating his accomplice even now, but mark my words: The _Echo de France_ will run an article soon, and that article will describe exactly how Lupin came to possess the pearl.”   
  
“The _Echo de France_ ?” John repeated, leaning forwards in his chair.

“Yes; it’s an online magazine where Lupin frequently publishes accounts of his exploits.” Ganimard grimaced. “As you can probably imagine, it’s gained quite the notoriety. Every so often, someone will publish a fraudulent article under Lupin’s name, but Lupin himself usually denounces those in his next post.” He pulled out another file. “The authors tend to suffer for their attempts.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and flipped through the files, translating for John’s sake as he reviewed them: “Stolen heirloom; exposed embezzlement plot; invasion of privacy.” Sherlock was clearly already familiar with the articles and the crimes they described. _So, Lupin is physically harmless, but not above revenge._ “Do you have any idea why Lupin is targeting Sherlock?”  
  
Ganimard sighed, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “When Lupin was in custody, I had the opportunity to speak with him. He praised me – can you believe it? A criminal praising his arresting officer. He praised me and called me the best detective we have, but he also said that I was only _almost_ as clever as you, Monsieur Holmes,” he grumbled. “I admit that I had to research the name later; you hadn’t reached your current level of fame, yet. Lupin has held an interest in you for quite a while, and I suspect that he saw and seized the opportunity to test himself against you.”  
  
 _But, that still begs the question: What kind of thief would risk his career on a being that could see past his every disguise? It’s foolish, and while Lupin’s arguably insane, he’s not foolish._ John pursed his lips. _So, why is Lupin making such a daring move?_  
  
Sherlock spent the remainder of their meeting quizzing Ganimard’s experience with Lupin. Unfortunately, Ganimard couldn’t contribute any suggestions on Lupin’s intended escape route; he admitted that they usually had to wait for Lupin to make his move before recognising his plan. “I will, however, be with you at the Louvre during the heist.”  
  
“That’s a great reassurance,” Sherlock said with barely-audible sarcasm; John kicked him under the table and glared. “I look forward to it,” he added, more sincerely. He glanced at John with an eyebrow raised, as if to say, _‘There. Happy, now?’_ They made an appointment to meet with him again the next morning to discuss further security measures – Sherlock admitted that he would need the night to formulate the best preventative strategy he could – before taking their leave.  


* * *

“You shouldn’t have baited him like that,” John hissed when they left the building. “Ganimard is on our side; why would you intentionally alienate him?”   
  
“You heard his so-called expertise,” Sherlock muttered back, bowing his head closer. It was odd, John reflected, to be able to look Sherlock straight in the eye. The new form was disorienting sometimes. “He was useless; am I supposed to praise that?”   
  
“No, but you could at least _act_ like you’re not _disgusted_ with him.”   
  
“Gentlemen, perhaps you would care for a spot of lunch. What are you in the mood for?” Moreau called from a metre in front of them. John and Sherlock straightened. “We have almost everything within a five-minute walking distance.”   
  
“Crepes?” John suggested after brief consideration. _I haven’t had crepes in years, but I remember loving them._   
  
Moreau nodded and led them south across the island. John took a breath, preparing to return to his discussion with Sherlock, but Sherlock froze beside him and spun around. “ _Lupin,_ ” he breathed, staring at the way they’d come.   
  
“What?” John’s query caught Moreau’s attention, and he turned to look back at them just as Sherlock bolted back up the street. “Sherlock!” John swore under his breath and chased after him. Behind him, he could hear Moreau’s dress shoes slapping the pavement as he ran to catch up.

“It’s Lupin!” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder, making no effort to hide the sighting, and John could see another figure sprinting through the crowds halfway up the street. _What the hell is Lupin doing at the police prefecture?!_ Thankfully, Sherlock’s concern with keeping up his human disguise prevented him from moving at his super-human speed, so John kept pace with him. Moreau, on the other hand, was falling further and further behind. _This is not going to end well…._  
  
Lupin led them across the bridge to the other side of the Seine, and John grimaced at the pull in his thigh. _I haven’t done this in a while; I’ll be paying for it later, I’m sure._ He put on a burst of speed to follow Sherlock through an intersection just ahead of a wall of traffic, and he heard Moreau shout something as they left him behind.  
  
As they raced past a towering fountain on their left, John heard a murmur of voices that quickly grew into a roar. _What – where is Lupin leading us? It sounds like a rally._ They passed through the next intersection into a park, and John realised he was right. _Oh, no. A crowd, a thief that’s a master of disguises, and an alien in a form I’m not used to? This is going to end badly, I just know it._ Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself forward and resolved to keep Sherlock in his sight.  
  
 _“Vive les extreterrestres!”_ someone cried over a megaphone moments before a different voice responded angrily. John felt his heart stutter as he translated. _It’s a Pro-Alien and Pro-Earth protest. And, we’re running straight into it._ He could just see flashes of the protestors through the trees, and it looked to be a huge group.  
  
Thankfully, Sherlock hesitated at the edge of the protest, skin darkening by increments as he searched the park for a sign of Lupin. “Sherlock,” John gasped, skidding to a stop beside him.  
  
“He slipped into the crowd,” Sherlock stated, skin rippling slightly. John glanced at the protestors, but no one was paying them any attention. “I lost track of him. But, why would he lead us here? Why did he show up at all?”  
  
“Great question. Do you think we could figure it out back at the hotel? You know, where we’re not standing five metres away from people who would happily lynch us?”  
  
Sherlock ignored him. “There’s got to be something – ah!” He weaved through the small grove and plucked a piece of paper from one of the tree trunks. “ _Le Pied-Bot._ That’s all it says. What is Lupin trying to tell me?”  
  
“I don’t know, but _I’m_ telling you that we should go find Moreau before we cause an international diplomatic incident,” John replied, sucking in a last gasp of air.  
  
Skin returning to his form’s normal tone, Sherlock winced and nodded. “I doubt Lupin is going to show up again. He delivered his message, whatever it may be.” With a last glance at the two opposing groups, Sherlock tugged John back the way they came.  


* * *

Lupin’s appearance and the run-in with the rally served as a blunt reminder that the world hadn’t forgotten Sherlock, and when Moreau caught up to them, he insisted that they return immediately to the hotel. He stopped to get John the savoury crepes he’d promised, of course, before leaving them at the hotel where they were hopefully protected from Lupin. John didn’t believe it for a moment, but he sat and started in on his lunch while Sherlock spread out the floor plans for the Louvre. “What are you up to, now?”   
  
“As much as I’d love to review Lupin’s previous exploits in the _Echo de France,_ I need to figure out a workable plan for the Louvre’s security defences. I’d like to have a draft ready for the meeting with Ganimard tomorrow.”   
  
“Ah.” John curled his leg up and massaged his calf with his free hand as he ate the crepe.   
  
Sherlock glanced up and tilted his head. “Are you hurt?” he asked, pushing the laptop aside. “You weren’t limping on the way back to the car.” He extended a tendril to hover uncertainly over John’s calf.

“It’s fine; I probably just pulled a muscle. We haven’t been chasing criminals through London for a few weeks, and I didn’t stretch before running after you. I’ll be sore for a day or so, and then it’ll be fine.” He grinned at Sherlock, who still hadn’t turned back to the computer. “Don’t worry about it – I’ll be good to go for the heist.”  
  
Huffing, Sherlock knocked John’s hand aside and massaged the tense muscle with a wonderfully flexible limb. John groaned and relaxed further into the chair. “I’m not just going to ignore you while you’re in pain,” he argued, twisting the tendril so that it pressed against the root of John’s calf. “Let me know if I make a mistake.”  
  
“You’re doing just fine so far,” John half-moaned. “That feels amazing.” Sherlock grinned at him and pulled his computer back onto his lap, forming another arm for typing while continuing the massage. The suite descended into silence, broken only by John’s chewing and the click of Sherlock’s laptop. Anthea, on the other hand, arrived with a bang.  
  
“What happened today?” she demanded, slamming into their suite, eyes wide in worry. John jumped and nearly choked on his crepe, and she grimaced in apology as she continued. “Moreau called me and told me that you saw Lupin. He didn’t give me many details; are you alright?”  
  
Sherlock pulled out the slip of paper and reached across John to hand it to her, casually resting his hand on John’s shoulder for balance. “We’re fine. We chased after him and lost Moreau in the process, but Lupin led us to a protest and left this note.”  
  
Anthea snatched the note and raised an eyebrow. “ _Le Pied-Bot_? That’s it?”  
  
“It’s got to be a clue about why Lupin’s targeting a relatively unknown painting,” John said, “but we have no idea what it means.”  
  
“Right.” Anthea shook her head, handing the note back. “So. Did you learn anything useful from Ganimard?”  
  
“Nothing I was hoping for, but I did get a lead for further investigation.” Sherlock explained Lupin’s habit of writing up his own thefts and his intentions to review all the articles in detail. Although she was clearly still anxious about Sherlock running through unknown terrain in search of a known criminal, Anthea gave him a few profiling tips before leaving them as abruptly as she’d come in, muttering about lunatic thieves that made everyone’s life harder.  
  
John finished his lunch and looked over at Sherlock. “Do we have any other plans for the rest of the day?” he asked, stretching his leg and dislodging Sherlock’s tendril.  
  
“Not particularly; I have to figure out the best way to protect the Louvre with the resources available while accounting for as many variables as possible. It will probably take me a good portion of the night, in addition to the rest of the day.”  
  
“Right.” John stood, grimacing at the way his calf attempted to cramp, and made his way to the bathroom. “In that case, I’m going to go take advantage of that huge bath. I’ll see you in an hour or so, yeah?”  
  
“Wait,” Sherlock ordered. John paused, glancing at Sherlock over his shoulder then blinking in surprise when Sherlock suddenly appeared next to him and plastered himself against John’s side. “I love you,” he said.  
  
“I love you, too,” John replied, bemused but warmed by the unexpected sentiment. He brushed a hand through Sherlock’s hair, back to its usual curls. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Of course; I just realised that I hadn’t said it aloud to you today.” Sherlock straightened and nudged John to the bathroom. “Now, enjoy your bath.”  
  
Dazed, John did so. It took him at least five minutes to notice that he was grinning.  


* * *

The next morning, John woke with Sherlock curled around him in his human form. He blinked down at the arm draped across his chest and glanced at the door, noting the lack of tendrils extending out to the main room. _He’s not multitasking? That’s a first._ Even more oddly, Sherlock hadn’t moved upon John’s awakening. Concerned, John brushed his fingers across Sherlock’s hairline. “Are you alright?” _I know he’s not sleeping - he never sleeps – but what if he’s sick or something?_

“’m fine,” Sherlock murmured, nuzzling John’s shoulder. “Just enjoying the moment. I finished the last of my preparations for the security details a few minutes ago, and I wanted to lay with you for a while, so I did.” He pressed a kiss to John’s collar. “I haven’t been able to spend a lot of time with you outside of the case since we got here; it’s nice to rest for a bit.”  
  
“Ah.” _And, he’s just lying with me instead of rushing me to go._ Reassured and a little overwhelmed that Sherlock had chosen spending a quiet moment with John over the lure of the case, John relaxed back into the mattress and played his hand through Sherlock’s curls. _We haven’t really stopped moving since we got here. This is…nice._ He smiled at the familiar, subtle warmth growing in his chest and closed his eyes, enjoying the peaceful interlude.  
  
It didn’t last, of course; John found his mind wandering away from Sherlock and to the anticipation of the chase. He wondered, vaguely guilty, whether he was distracting Sherlock from his job and duty. With a pang of regret, he finally stirred and sat up, earning a disgruntled mumble against his ribs. “We should probably get going soon,” he commented, unable to resist running his hand down Sherlock’s side.  
  
Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh, grudgingly pushing himself up; John grinned at the exaggerated movements. “Very well.” He pressed a kiss to John’s cheek and slid off the bed. “You needn’t feel guilty, but I will admit I’m ready to get back to the task at hand. I’ll text Moreau and ask him to pick us up, and we can stop for breakfast on the way to _Capitaine_ Ganimard. Will half an hour be enough time for you?”  
  
“Half an hour’s fine,” John replied, already heading to his closet as Sherlock stepped out of the room. When he entered the sitting room twenty minutes later, he found himself facing a file of papers sitting on the table. “What’s this?” He opened it and flipped through a few pages, recognising the layout of the Louvre but not the series of lines and times scribbled in.  
  
“Notes for security improvements,” Sherlock said, cycling through tabs on his laptop. “All easily implemented in the time allowed, of course, but highly effective.” Humming, Sherlock pulled John to sit beside him and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “How’s your leg?”  
  
 _I forgot all about it._ John stretched it experimentally and blinked in surprise when there wasn’t even a twinge of pain. “It feels perfect. I guess that bath was more soothing than I’d thought.”  
  
“Good,” Sherlock murmured, running a hand up and down the side of John’s neck. “That’s good.”  
  
“Sherlock.” John looked up from the folder and stared at the alien. “What did you do?” Sherlock just smiled and tried to pull him back against his side, but John resisted. “Is this some kind of alien ability you haven’t told me about?”  
  
“No, nothing alien at all,” Sherlock laughed. “I just worked at your muscle while you were sleeping.”  
  
 _But, I don’t feel anything at all. It would have taken hours of massage._ John blinked. _And, Sherlock doesn’t sleep._ “You really spent all that time massaging my calf?” _Gently, too, if it didn’t wake me up._  
  
“Well, not all of it. I let off around four in the morning; you probably would have awoken if I’d continued.”  
  
“Oh.” Relaxing into Sherlock’s pull, John pursed his lips. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re very welcome. Is there anything else you’d like to get worked up about?” Sherlock teased, carding his hand through the shorter hairs of John’s scalp.  
  
John pretended to consider. “I think I’ll just settle for this.” He twisted his head and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s hand, mindful to keep his mouth closed against the taste of alien skin.  
  
Sherlock smiled. “I love you, too, John.” A knock sounded on the door, and he shut down his computer. “That would be Moreau – a bit early, but if you’re ready to go anyway…?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” John closed the folder in his lap and handed it over as they made their way out.  


* * *

Moreau delivered them to Ganimard’s office after a short stop for baguettes, and Ganimard waved them in with a distracted air as he rattled something into his phone. “ _Merci,_ ” he finished, hanging up and running a hand through his hair before turning to them. “A few more preparations for the theft,” he explained. “How may I help you?”   
  
Sherlock leaned back in the chair. “I’d like to discuss our respective strategies for preventing the theft of _Le Pied-Bot,_ ” he said. “I’ve created a comprehensive plan for the Louvre’s employees, but I imagine that you’ll bring a few guards of your own as well. We should coordinate our efforts to prevent overlap and conflict.”   
  
“A good strategy,” Ganimard agreed, pulling out a few files from his desk. “In addition to personally standing guard over the painting in its vault, I am bringing a task force, which will supplement the Louvre’s security forces.”   
  
“Does that mean that you’re planning to integrate them into the Louvre’s security and have them walk patrols through the museum?” Sherlock asked. John remembered a few charts he’d glimpsed when he’d flipped through the file, and realised that Sherlock’s plans might conflict with Ganimard’s. _This is the problem with putting two different people on the same job,_ he thought wryly.   
  
“Yes. The Louvre has a thousand security officers, but they cannot all work the entire day. My task force will take some of the burden.”   
  
“On the other hand, the Louvre’s security guards are more familiar with the layout and design of the museum,” Sherlock countered mildly. “Would you not agree that they would be more comfortable with their surroundings and therefore less likely to be taken by surprise if Lupin attempts to sneak past them?”   
  
“There is no doubt,” Ganimard said, eyes narrowing. “That does not address the problem of manpower, though.”   
  
“No, but I do have an alternative solution: I designed a feasible and effective patrol schedule for the Louvre’s security officers that will keep the entire building as secure as possible while still allowing the guards to take shifts with sufficient rest. After we leave here, I will submit it to the head of security at the Louvre and Monsieur Delacroix. If your men could secure the perimeter of the Louvre, it would take some strain from the Louvre’s security and add an extra layer of defence against Lupin.”   
  
From Ganimard’s expression, John thought for a moment that he would refuse. After a few seconds, however, he sighed and nodded. “Very well,” he agreed, though his acquiescence clearly cost him something. “I will assign my men to the perimeter of the Louvre.”   
  
“Excellent.” They spent the next hour discussing the minutiae of their defence until both parties were satisfied with the Louvre’s level of protection.   
  
As they were stepping out the door, however, Ganimard piped up, “I was right about the black pearl, though, was I not?”   
  
John paused just outside the room and glanced back, eyebrow raised. “Pardon?”   
  
“The black pearl. Lupin has claimed the crime.” He blinked at their obvious surprise. “You were not aware. Look up his article – it is in the _Echo de France._ ”   
  
“We’ll do that,” Sherlock agreed, turning away. John thought he saw a hint of a frustrated ripple, but it was suppressed so quickly that he couldn’t be sure.   


* * *

Moreau was quiet during the drive to the Louvre, and John noticed the strain of tension at his temples. _The poor man’s probably spending every waking moment worrying about Lupin’s coming appearance,_ he thought. Worse, the most he could practically do was smooth they way and chauffeur Sherlock and John around Paris. “I’ll pick you up at six, shall I?” Moreau asked as he pulled up to the entrance.   
  
“A bit later, if you please,” Sherlock declined. “I want to examine the _Salle de Etats_ after the room closes to the public, which isn’t until five-thirty. We should be finished by six-thirty.”

“Of course, Monsieur.” Moreau’s fingers danced on the wheel before he nodded and pulled away.  
  
Delacroix, by contrast, was as poised as ever when he met them at the entrance. “You’re here; good. Welcome.” With smooth movements, he motioned for them to follow him to his office. “If you don’t mind my asking, have you made any progress in anticipating Lupin’s impending theft?”  
  
Sherlock rippled lightly, and John brushed their hands together in comfort. “Unfortunately, no,” Sherlock replied. “I confess that I’ve no idea how Lupin would feasibly pull off a crime of this magnitude: Not only is he stealing from a highly secure facility such as this, but he’s announcing the time and target beforehand. The only things I am sure of are that the theft itself will happen and that I’ll be able to recognise Lupin on sight. Our best bet at this point would be to have me guard the painting and apprehend him when he appears.”  
  
Delacroix hummed. “Have you ruled out the possibility that Lupin will incapacitate you somehow? While Lupin is famous for the nearly nonexistent collateral damage during his thefts, he has occasionally brought minor harm onto the human obstacles.”  
  
“Really?” John asked, feeling his gut clench. “We’ve been under the impression that Lupin is entirely non-violent.” _First Ganimard’s accusation about the black pearl and now this – Is there more to fear from Lupin than we’d thought?_ Although John remained aware that Sherlock was all but indestructible, he was still very glad that Sherlock hadn’t followed Lupin into the protest.  
  
“He’s certainly non-violent when compared to other thieves of his calibre – or, more accurately, thieves who strive for his achievements – but a pacifist he is not.” Delacroix shrugged. “The example that comes to mind is a lesser-known case where Lupin took passage on a ship to the United States – _La Provence,_ I believe it was called – and assaulted a passenger whom many had suspected to be him.”  
  
Sherlock’s face blanked in shock, and John yelped, “What?!” _That doesn’t fit at all with the impression we’ve been given!_  
  
“To Lupin’s credit, Monsieur Rozaine suffered only minor injuries. I don’t think the man even pressed charges against Lupin once he regained his stolen possessions.” He glanced at Sherlock, eyebrow raised. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of this case already; _Capitaine_ Ganimard arrested Lupin the moment he stepped off the boat in America. It was the one and – so far – only time that Lupin has been in police custody.”  
  
“But, Lupin fooled everyone and walked out,” Sherlock finished.  
  
“Precisely. You understand my point, though? Rozaine was of no threat to Lupin; he wasn’t even involved in the previous theft that led Lupin to escape France on the passenger ship. You, by contrast, represent a distinct threat to Lupin’s plan, and you can’t rule out the possibility that Lupin will harm you and remove you from the equation.”  
  
“I will keep it in mind, but please do not concern yourself with my safety,” Sherlock murmured, gaze unfocused.  
  
Delacroix nodded, satisfied he’d done his duty; he stepped into his office and motioned for them to take the seats opposite him. “So?” he asked when they’d settled. “What have you got?”  
  
Sherlock placed the file on the desk and summarised its contents. “I understand that this is short notice, so I kept the long-term suggestions I have for your security to a minimum. For the heist, I outlined a schedule for the patrolling security officers to reduce the blind spots at any point in time; this is the most efficient arrangement I could make without forcing you to enlist unfamiliar guards.” He flipped the file open and pulled out a few of the papers. “These are comprehensive patrol routes and check-in times that your security officers should follow, as well as a chart of shift changes so that your officers remain alert and attentive throughout the day.”  
  
“This is a twenty-four hour chart,” Delacroix commented. “Do you think it’s really necessary to keep watch from midnight to midnight? Surely Lupin won’t come in the middle of the night; security is much more vulnerable during the day, when the museum is filled with visitors.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to follow his promise to the letter and not the spirit,” Sherlock argued. “Would you rather be over-prepared, or will you risk being caught unaware like last time?” Though he still looked dubious, Delacroix agreed to follow Sherlock’s schedule. “Excellent. Now, are you planning to close the Louvre during the day of the heist or keep it open?”  
  
“Open, of course. We’ll increase security at the entrances, obviously, but the promise of Lupin’s theft is sure to bring a huge crowd. We might as well profit from it. And, _bien sur_ , we will not bow to threats.”  
  
“In that case, you’ll want to use this set of patrol routes during visitor hours. It’s designed for both maximum security against Lupin and safety for the patrons.” Sherlock tilted his head. “On the topic of security, have your officers managed to track Lupin’s movements through the theft of the _Mona Lisa_ using the video?”  
  
“Yes and no.” Delacroix grimaced. “They tracked him to the temporary exhibit hall between the Italian paintings hall and the staircase to the ground floor, but then he disappeared from all our cameras.”  
  
“How is that possible?” John blurted.  
  
“There are several methods,” Sherlock murmured, lacing his fingers together under his chin. He shook his head. “It’s ultimately unimportant, I suppose; if we have extra time after the heist, I can look into it for your future security, but the room is far enough from _Le Pied-Bot_ and the restoration room that it shouldn’t be an immediate security threat. I would however, like to discuss the security response your employees will take when Lupin appears, and I need to examine the _Mona Lisa_ room when the exhibits close.”  


* * *

When Sherlock finally finished with Delacroix, it was still only two-thirty; Sherlock chose to spend the remaining three hours before the rooms would be cleared with the head of security, covering the plans he’d created in deeper detail. In the meantime, John grabbed lunch from one of the cafes in the Louvre and overheard three different conversations about the impending theft of _Le Pied-Bot._   
  
He shook his head, thankful for the disguising glasses, scarf and hat he was wearing, and trotted back to Sherlock and the head of security. _I can’t believe those girls are actually planning to sleep outside the Louvre tomorrow night to wait for Lupin,_ he marvelled, remembering the last conversation he’d heard. _If there are people that fanatical about getting into the Louvre tomorrow, I can see why Delacroix wouldn’t want to close the museum._ Though he hadn’t considered it before, by announcing his intentions, Lupin had easily created a huge diversion for security. _It’ll be a madhouse._   
  
Of course, one of the other conversations had been speculation over whether ‘the alien’ was in the Louvre at that moment – _that_ one had ended with excited giggles and sideways glances, and John had ducked his head a bit lower. _At least I can confidently say they were Pro-Aliens._   
  
Sherlock and the security officer had entirely switched into French by the time John returned, so he just sighed and grabbed a chair in the corner to wait. Another security officer glanced up and grinned at him in sympathy before waving him over to his desk; with a glance at Sherlock, John complied. “ _Bonjour_ , Monsieur,” the officer greeted. “You appear to be afflicted with a terrible disease: Boredom.”   
  
John cracked a grin. “You could say that,” he agreed.   
  
“From the sounds of it, they will be talking for quite some time. Might I suggest you enjoy our exhibits while you wait? We may have lost _La Joconde,_ but we still have much to offer.”   
  
“That sounds like a good idea, actually. I think I might.” He thanked the officer and headed back to Sherlock, waiting for a lull in the discussion to insert himself. Sherlock blinked at John’s plans but nodded, promising to text him if he needed him for anything, and John strolled back to the Louvre’s main exhibits. He managed to cover both floors of the Egyptian unit, the entire second floor and a good portion of the ground floor before the security officers began to clear the rooms.

“How were the exhibits?” Sherlock asked when John returned to the security office to wait for the patrons to trickle out.  
  
“Good,” John replied. “One of the statues on the ground floor was particularly striking – _Psyche and Cupid,_ I think it was called.” He shrugged, and they started making their way to the _Salle de Etats._ “Otherwise, it’s not really my cup of tea but still interesting. How was the meeting?”  
  
“It went well; the head security officer was quite competent, very accommodating and agreed with most of my suggestions. I think the Louvre has a fighting chance against Lupin.”  
  
“Let’s hope so,” John muttered as Delacroix appeared and waved them back toward the exhibit. _There’s a lot riding on this heist. If Sherlock can stop Lupin, it’ll be a huge boost for his public image and credibility. If he fails…well. It’s not like it could get much worse after Sebastian’s accusations, could it?_  
  
The room almost seemed to carry a sombre air with its prize possession gone and its space devoid of visitors, John decided. The alcove in the centre, meant to draw attention to the Louvre’s _piece de resistance,_ was glaringly empty. Delacroix stopped them directly in front of it. Sherlock stepped past the ropes and leaned over a small table to examine the wall.  
  
“The holes in the sides are where the glass case used to attach to the wall.” Delacroix turned his face away as if he couldn’t bear to look at the empty expanse. “As I said, Lupin removed the fastenings before the theft took place.”  
  
Sherlock hummed and stepped back to John’s side, twisting to examine the room. “So, he started here, and when the lights went out he jumped _here_ ” – He launched himself over the rope barrier and rushed to the table – “and up to the table.” Stopping just before the edge, he ran a hand over the surface of the table. “Scuff marks where he hopped up – size nine, approximately – and then he knocked out the pane of glass.” Sherlock stepped onto the table and mimed removing the glass, carefully kneeling on the surface and lowering it to the ground. “He wouldn’t have wanted it to fall on the bystanders, especially any children who had come closer. That took a few more seconds. Then, he turned back and removed the painting from the wall.”  
  
“The frame was secured to the wall with a security hanger,” Delacroix added. “The bolts were cleanly severed.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, running a hand down the wall past a few holes. “These scrapes in the wall itself – He brought some sort of bolt cutter to slide behind the frame and sever the hanger. It slipped and gouged the wall; not surprising, considering he only had about twenty seconds to remove the painting itself and hide it under his coat.” He stepped back and hopped down from the table. “Then, he crosses the rope barrier again, just in time for the lights to go on, and walks out the door.” John and Delacroix waited expectantly while Sherlock stared around the room, but he just shook his head after a few moments. “I’ll figure out what he did after we catch Lupin on Wednesday. For now, let’s look at _Le Pied-Bot._ ”  
  
Upon getting his first good look, John wasn’t particularly impressed by the surprisingly large painting, and he wondered once again what its significance was. _Why is Lupin even bothering with it? It’s got to have something to do with Sherlock, especially after he left that note at the rally, but what?_  
  
Sherlock was muttering something, and John leaned closer to catch bits of it. “It’s much bigger than the _Mona Lisa_ ; there’s no way he can fit this under his coat. How are you planning to take this with you, Lupin?” He shook his head and asked, “Could you walk me through the exact steps you’ll take to transfer it to the restoration room?”  
  
Delacroix shrugged and explained the process, walking them back through the halls and down the flights of stairs to demonstrate. “I’ve already covered the security in the restoration room,” he added, stopping just inside the doorway.  
  
“Indeed.” Sherlock turned a slow circle before moving along the length of the hall, ignoring the few employees still working on projects. “Remind me: Is there another exit from this room, or do you have to go back through Denon Hall?”  
  
“That is the only entrance or exit.”

“Which means that Lupin will have to grab the painting from here and leave through that hall.” Sherlock paused and knelt beside a section of wall, running his hands over it.  
  
John glanced at Delacroix and the employees before moving to stand beside Sherlock. “What are you doing?” he asked.  
  
“The Louvre is a very old building, John; I’m sure that the floor plans were made long after its construction. That means that they may have a few details unintentionally left out.”  
  
“You’re looking for a hidden passage,” John realised. “If Lupin’s come down here before – and I wouldn’t put it past him – then he might have found another escape route.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. “Good. Very good.” He stood and took a few more steps along the perimeter of the room. “So far, though, it looks like it’s solid wall.”  
  
John paced with him through the rest of the room before returning to Delacroix, who was watching them with an obviously curious gaze. Sherlock checked his watch and clapped his hands together. “Well, the room is secure. I have a bit of research to go through tonight, but I’d like to examine the rest of the building in as much detail as possible. The Louvre is closed on Tuesday, correct?”  
  
“Yes,” Delacroix said. “You’re welcome to explore as needed; I can be available most of the day if you need me.”  
  
“That would be wonderful, thank you. Additionally, I need to work with key members of your staff to ensure smooth responses during the theft – tomorrow would be ideal.” He grabbed John’s wrist and tugged him toward the exit, Delacroix keeping pace with them. “Now, our ride should be arriving any moment; would eleven in the morning be a good time to return?”  
  
“Of course, Messieurs. I’ll arrange whatever you need.”  


* * *

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock shot straight for the laptop when they got back to their hotel room. John waved goodbye to Moreau and sat beside him as the computer booted up. “If Lupin was involved in the theft, then he’s also at least somewhat responsible for that woman’s death,” John mused grimly, remembering Ganimard’s allegation that Lupin was involved in the black pearl theft-turned-murder. “And, that would mean that we can’t rely on his nonviolent reputation.” He shivered, thinking of the note they’d found that first night.   
  
“We’ll see,” Sherlock murmured. The background of his screen flashed up, and he clicked to the browser. “Let’s find out what Lupin has to say about that theft.”   
  
The article was only a paragraph long, to John’s surprise, so he had to wait a bare second for Sherlock to finish reading. “Lupin didn’t kill the countess,” Sherlock announced. “There’s still some ambiguity over whether or not the murderer was his accomplice, but I don’t think Lupin was connected to the murderer at all.” He pulled open a document and typed up a translation of the French article. “Here, look for yourself.”   
  
_Arsene Lupin is proud to announce that he has recovered the black pearl from the countess’s murderer, and he assures all interested parties that it will soon be available for the public’s viewing pleasure._   
  
“That’s not particularly useful,” John commented. “Don’t his accounts of his crimes usually have more detail? There’s nothing there about who stole what.”   
  
“It’s just another layer of mystery, isn’t it?” Sherlock agreed. “He’s not giving us any clues as to what we should expect from him.”   
  
Before John could reply, Anthea knocked on their door and announced herself. “I heard you walk by my room,” she explained as she stepped in. “Today’s been _brilliant._ ”   
  
At the unusually energetic tone, John turned to look her over. Despite the early hour, she’d already changed into a conservative sleeping gown, but her expression was still wide awake with excitement. “What’s happened?”

“The mole – I _found the mole!_ It was one of the vice presidents of the company; can you believe it? I was permitted to sit in on questioning, and the man was willing to do _anything_ to lessen his own sentence. He gave us names, locations, crimes, everything. We’ve got them. We’ve got the Black Lotus, John!” And, much to John’s bewildered surprise, she hugged him.  
  
“That’s – wow. Congratulations.” John patted her shoulder awkwardly, glancing at Sherlock above her head. He was grinning, the bastard. _I’ve got an attractive woman in her sleepwear hanging off me,_ he groused. _Shouldn’t he be getting jealous right about now? Still, if there was ever a reason to celebrate…_ “Have you told Mycroft yet?”  
  
“No; I only got back about twenty minutes before you. Paperwork, you know.” She shook her head and released him. “First, though, how did your day go?”  
  
“Lupin remains an enigma,” Sherlock replied dryly, “but our course of action is far clearer. I designed a security system that should prevent the theft, based on what we know of the Louvre’s layout.”  
  
“We can only hope,” Anthea agreed. She clapped her hands together, looking more like a teenager than a government analyst in charge of the planet’s only extraterrestrials. “I’m going to grab my laptop and call the safe house.”  
  
“Don’t worry about bringing it back in here,” Sherlock said. At her quizzical look, he grinned. “Mycroft and I don’t actually need to see each other every day to keep from going insane; I’ve got John and he has Mrs. Hudson. You and Mycroft have a lot to celebrate in this case; it’s the break you’ve been waiting for. Go enjoy yourselves.”  
  
It was probably a sign of Anthea’s utter glee that she just nodded and left to do as Sherlock suggested, but John still huffed a laugh at her eagerness. “They’re getting along well, it seems,” he mused. “Do you think they’ll ‘officially’ be a couple before we get a chance to tell Mycroft that we are?”  
  
Sherlock chuckled and shifted back to his usual humanoid form. “I highly doubt it, but I suppose anything’s possible.” He grabbed John’s wrist from across the room and towed him back to the sofa.  
  
“True enough,” John agreed. “Just look at us. What are the chances that two people from completely different planets would happen across each other not once but twice and manage to fall in love?”  
  
The chest against his shoulder rose just enough for Sherlock to laugh, and then the alien pulled John into a cradle of limbs. “Silly human,” Sherlock chided, curling around John and surrounding him with gentle pressure. “We were meant for each other.”  
  
“Ridiculous alien,” John mumbled back as he relaxed into the weave of tentacles. “I don’t believe in fate.” He felt a brief pressure against his forehead – Sherlock kissing him – before they fell into a comfortable silence. John only noticed that he’d drifted off when he opened his eyes to the ceiling above his bed and Sherlock’s tendril around his wrist, but he just mumbled as he turned back into sleep.  


* * *

They revisited the Louvre again the next day, running a few security drills with the officers and making last-minute adjustments to Sherlock’s plan before returning to the hotel in the evening. John had barely toed his shoes off when Anthea knocked on the door. “I’ve got a few hours before I’m needed back at the embassy to help track down the Black Lotus members,” she commented, hefting her laptop. “I thought we could call the safe house and see how everyone’s doing.” She tilted her head. “For that matter, how’s the investigation going? I didn’t talk to you much about it last night.”   
  
“We’ve done just about all that we can do,” Sherlock informed her while John cleared a space on the table for the laptop. “Tomorrow, we’re going to do a walk-through of the Louvre and do some last-minute preparations.”   
  
“That’s good; I’m glad to hear it,” Anthea said as she pulled up the video call program. We’ve managed to keep our information about the Black Lotus as quiet as possible, and several Chinese officials are already issuing warrants for the arrest of the major ringleaders. I sent back what we’ve found on operatives hiding in England, of course; if we’re lucky, this entire thing might be wrapped up by the time we get back home.”

“Sounds like things are going well from your end,” John agreed. The screen of the laptop lit up as Mrs. Hudson answered the call. “Good evening, Mrs. Hudson!”  
  
“Good evening to you, John,” Mrs. Hudson replied with a wide smile. “I’ll just collect Mycroft, shall I?” She turned, calling the alien’s name, and glanced back at Anthea. “He tells me that you’ve cracked the case with the Black Lotus.”  
  
“That’s correct. I’ve got high hopes for this; first Adler’s organisation, and now the Black Lotus?” Anthea grinned, clearly unable to contain her excitement. “It looks like things are looking up.”  
  
“How is the situation there?” John asked, nodding to Mycroft as he appeared in the image.  
  
“I can’t say that it’s been smooth sailing,” Mrs. Hudson chuckled, “but the publicity about the Louvre is going a long way to minimise the impact of Wilkes’ accusations. And, having Sherlock in the public eye in France – at least a little – has so far kept the fanatics off our stoop here.”  
  
During the conversation that followed, John learned that Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had almost finished their calculations and strategising, and they planned to have a workable plan within the next two days. “So, you’ll have marching orders for us when we get back home?” John teased.  
  
“Along with several variations,” Mycroft agreed, “which will depend on how the robbery turns out. We’re preparing for every eventuality we can think of, Sherlock, so don’t fret too much.” He smiled. “Of course, we’d ideally have you capture Lupin and keep the painting safe, but that may not be feasible.”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and rippled lightly even as he smiled. “Are you doubting my abilities?” he mock-snarled.  
  
“Of course not, dearest brother. Why would I ever do that?”  
  
As seven o’clock rolled around, John begged off for need of food, and Anthea glanced at the time before admitting that she needed to head back to help the embassy. She refused to trade laptops with Sherlock, citing classified files on her hard drive that she didn’t feel comfortable leaving unsupervised, so Sherlock made Mycroft promise to call his mobile after Anthea took back her laptop and closed the connection. “I doubt I’ll see you later tonight,” she said on her way out, “so good night.”  
  
Already scanning the menu for room service, John gave her a distracted “good night” in return and flipped to the next page. Sherlock waved her out and pulled out his mobile, which had begun to ring.  
  
“Mycroft, I do have some news to impart of a more personal nature,” Sherlock immediately stated. John blinked and set down the menu, remembering that they’d never told Mycroft about their changed relationship status. _We couldn’t very well do it over the web camera. I might like Mrs. Hudson and Anthea a little better now, but they’re still not family like Mycroft._ He forced down the surge of nerves as Sherlock continued. “John and I are together – romantically.”  
  
There was a pause as Mycroft replied, and John gave Sherlock a shaky smile. Sherlock extended a tendril in return, which John gladly clasped as he returned to his food options. “Yes,” Sherlock said. “Very happy.” John’s heart swelled a little. “The first night here. I didn’t want to tell you earlier for lack of privacy – I’m sure you understand.”  
  
“Don’t forget to warn him about the taste issue,” John said, deciding on his dinner. He stood and fetched the hotel phone to call in the order before returning to Sherlock’s side and leaning into the alien. “Put him on speakerphone?” he requested.  
  
“John wants to talk to you, too,” Sherlock announced, pressing the appropriate button.  
  
“I’d welcome you to the family, John, except that it seems superfluous at this point,” Mycroft said. “Instead, I’ll just ask: What took you so long? I was starting to despair on my brother’s behalf.”  
  
Groaning, John pressed his forehead into Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m an idiot,” he groused, “and I missed the clues. Can we get back to celebrating instead of picking on me?” Sherlock brought a hand to the back of his head and played with John’s hair; John shot him a grin and leaned into the pressure.

Mycroft relented, and his voice was soft when he spoke. “I am happy for you – both of you. I’m glad you’ve managed to find each other. John, welcome to the family – and thank you.”   
  
John blinked. “For what?” _For falling in love with Sherlock? I didn’t exactly have a choice._ Sherlock rubbed a hand over his shoulder and smiled at him, and John instinctively returned the gesture.   
  
When he responded, Mycroft’s voice was so expressive that John could practically feel Mycroft’s arms wrapping around him in an embrace. “I could break it down into all its component parts, but they sum up to one thing: Thank you for being all that you are.”   
  
The novelty of the sentiment, so far from what John expected or ever imagined, made him tear up a bit. _When I got back from Afghanistan, I thought I would never belong anywhere again. Now, I’m right where I need to be – and it’s_ perfect. “It is entirely my pleasure.”   
  
Eventually, they warned Mycroft about the adverse taste of alien skin for humans, and he laughed and promised to keep it in mind if things progressed that far with Anthea. John, of course, took the opportunity to turn the tables and tease Mycroft about the extended chat sessions he and Anthea had taken after every video call except the last. “Seriously, though, I’m glad that it seems to be working out for you two,” he admitted. _Especially now that I don’t have to fight my jealousy,_ he thought, nuzzling Sherlock’s cheek.   
  
Mycroft expressed a similar level of relief and awe at her receptiveness just as room service arrived with John’s dinner. “We’d better go,” Sherlock said, standing and shifting into a disguise to collect the food. “Good night, Mycroft.”   
  
John and Mycroft chorused farewells to each other, and Sherlock disconnected as he walked to the door. The beef bourguignon was delicious, as expected, and John collapsed into the sofa beside Sherlock when he finished, feeling pleasantly bloated and emotionally satisfied from the evening. Sherlock pressed a kiss to his temple and curled around him, and they lazed there for nearly an hour before John’s increasingly frequent yawns spurred Sherlock to send him to bed.   
  
As he laid there, wrist securely wrapped in Sherlock’s tendril, John closed his eyes and smiled. _I love you,_ he thought, twisting his fingers to brush against the alien skin. _I love you so much. Thank you for being a part of my life – and for making me see that you could be something more._   
  
Sherlock branched a segment from his tentacle and brought it up to trace the line of John’s jaw, ending with a sweet, lingering press against his lips. John hummed into the kiss and relaxed into sleep, as assured of Sherlock’s reciprocating love and thankfulness as if he’d said the words aloud.   


* * *

The next day, Sherlock seemed to take a perverse enjoyment in seeing how long John could stoically follow as the alien scoured nearly every crevice of the Louvre. At least, that was the only explanation John could think of for why Sherlock hadn’t just let him wait by the entrance or – God forbid – in the comfortable bed of the hotel room. John had been yawning when Sherlock dragged him into wakefulness at six in the morning, and nearly twelve hours later he was wondering whether he’d ever feel his toes again. He crossed his arms, thankful for the filling lunch Moreau had delivered earlier, and leaned against one wall as he watched Sherlock pace the room. _At least we’re nearly done,_ he consoled himself. _I had no concept of how huge the Louvre was before, but I think I’m starting to get an idea._ In all that space, though, Sherlock still hadn’t found a single trick that Lupin could exploit.

Sherlock straightened and moved on to the next – and finally last! – room to be examined. “John, what do you want to do for dinner?” he asked. The conversational tone was completely at odds with the intent expression he wore, but John shrugged it off.   
  
“I’m fine with room service. In fact, I think I’d prefer it; I’ll probably take a nap after dinner to prepare for tomorrow.” _Besides, that gives us a chance to check in with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, as long as Anthea is back by then._   
  
As it turned out, Anthea was both available and willing to join them for a video chat session when they returned. “I’ve got a little over an hour for my dinner break, but I wanted to make sure I was here to wish you good luck before tomorrow,” she told them, calling up the connection with one hand and taking a bite of salad with the other. She swallowed it down and made her greetings as the screen lit up, “Good afternoon, Mycroft.”   
  
“To you as well,” he replied, smiling through the camera. He turned and called Mrs. Hudson to the computer. “How go the respective investigations?”   
  
“We’ve tracked down nearly three hundred operatives of varying importance,” Anthea stated, grinning widely. “This break was exactly what we needed.”   
  
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Mrs. Hudson beamed. “I’m so proud of you, dear. And, how about you, Sherlock? John?”   
  
“There’s nothing left to do but catch him,” Sherlock shrugged. “We can’t take every factor into consideration because of time constraints; we can’t discount the idea that he has an accomplice on the inside, but I’ve interviewed almost all of the employees and contractors, including maintenance staff, who’ve been hired in the past six months. Everyone comes up clean. And, Lupin may have set some things up weeks ago, before I ever arrived; I would have no way of noticing small changes that may have been missed by others.” He blurred slightly before reinstating control. “But, given what I know for certain, I can’t see any flaws in our preparations, and that makes me nervous.”   
  
“And you?” John interjected, trying to distract Sherlock from his anxiety. “How’s the plan coming along?”   
  
“We’re just about done,” Mycroft said, playing along with John’s strategy. “Now, it’s just a matter of hammering out the finer details and charting a few more probabilities. Regardless of surrounding circumstance, there are some actions we will be taking for certain.”   
  
Mrs. Hudson continued, “No matter how tomorrow goes, we feel that keeping an open relationship between you and humanity will serve everyone well. That means that Sherlock and Mycroft have to be as transparent as possible about themselves and their reasons for being on Earth.” John immediately thought about his relationship with Sherlock, but a tiny wink and smile from Mycroft soothed that worry. _So, that can remain a secret. Thank God._   
  
“Of course,” Sherlock replied, clearly following a similar path of thought. Mrs. Hudson beamed at him.   
  
“Additionally, we’d like for you to release as much of the classified information you’ve collected on them to the public, Anthea,” Mycroft finished. “That will boost humanity’s trust in the British government as well as myself and Sherlock.”   
  
Anthea hummed. “I may have a few limitations, but you can consider it done,” she agreed.   
  
“Excellent,” Mycroft said, smiling. “That alone will help a great deal.” The topic of conversation bounced around a bit between work and more casual chatter for the rest of the call, and she eventually cut the connection when her break was nearing its end.   
  
“Good luck tomorrow,” she said on her way out the door. “You can do this.”

_I hope so._ John sat with Sherlock until he felt just drowsy enough to take a nap. As he settled into the bed, Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his wrist and body draped across John’s own, he strove to drive away the nerves that threatened to keep him awake. _Everything happens in a few hours, but now is the time to sleep,_ he told himself sternly. Somehow, he managed to drift off, and the next thing he knew, Sherlock was kissing him awake in the darkened bedroom.   


* * *

Half past eleven found John and Sherlock at the _Porte des Lions_ entrance of the Louvre, following an escort of guards through the largish crowd outside to get into the building itself. _All these people here for the heist,_ John marvelled. _I wonder if they’re more interested in Lupin or Sherlock._ He bit back a yawn and trailed Sherlock down to the restoration rooms.   
  
“We moved _Le Pied-Bot_ several hours ago,” _Capitaine_ Ganimard informed them as they stepped in. “The patrols are walking the routes you suggested. Now, we’re just waiting for Lupin to arrive.”   
  
Sherlock nodded and peered around the room at the rest of the officers. “If it’s any consolation, he hasn’t disguised himself as anyone here,” he commented. John glanced at his watch and leaned against one of the walls to wait.   
  
At midnight, Ganimard straightened and barked something in French. John checked his watch just in time to see the hour click over to twelve.   
  
John felt himself tensing in anticipation, and Sherlock’s face split into a manic grin. His anxiety seemed to have left him. _This is it; this is what we live for. Let’s see what you’ve got, Lupin!_   


* * *

Except, nothing happened. Twelve-thirty drifted by, and then one slipped past with nary a peep. The guards in the room rotated out for the next shift at one-thirty, and Sherlock inspected each face as they stepped into the room. Arsene Lupin was not among them. John’s watch registered two, and John yawned. _God, we’ve still got twenty-two hours of potential waiting ahead of us._ He shook his head, noting that guards who had just entered were refreshed and alert. Even Ganimard looked more awake than he felt, which he chalked up to more experience in these kinds of waiting games. John forced his attention back on Sherlock, who was still perched before the vault in anticipation. _Why do I get the feeling that I’m the only one who’s going to be suffering for lack of sleep later?_   
  
Thankfully, one of the high-level security officers had compassion for John’s plight and sent down two cups of coffee from his private stash of top-flight beans. “For our guests,” the courier said, offering them to John and Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock waved his cup away, of course, scrutinising the cup and the coffee-bearer’s face as he did so. _“Thank you,”_ John gasped, immediately taking a gulp of the hot liquid. It scalded his throat, but he imagined he could feel the caffeine taking effect. The man shrugged and took the extra cup with him as he left; John assumed that the man and the coffee had passed Sherlock’s scrutiny. He took another sip, grimacing at the burn, and shook his head.   
  
Within forty minutes, John was regretting that he hadn’t used the loo before leaving the hotel. _I can probably last another hour or so, but the longer I wait, the more likely it is that I’ll end up chasing after Lupin with a full bladder._ He glanced at the time on his watch – a few minutes from three in the morning – and scrubbed at his eyes. “Excuse me; where’s the nearest toilet?” he asked, breaking the oppressive silence.

“The entrance from the pyramid to Denon Hall,” Sherlock replied immediately.  
  
“No, that one’s closed right now,” one of the officers interrupted. “One of the pipes burst about an hour after you left earlier; the closest working toilet is on the ground floor by the _Porte des Lions_ entrance, but you would have to wait by the restricted areas for a security officer to let you through. Your best option is the first floor toilet by the stairs. Under the circumstances, you should avoid the elevator.”  
  
“A pipe burst? Why was I not informed about this?!” Sherlock made a concerted effort not to ripple too disconcertingly in front of the others in the room, but John was watching for the minute vibrations. “I need to inspect the damaged areas and talk to the workers who’ve worked on the problem – _has_ anyone worked on the problem?”  
  
Looking suitably abashed, the officer nodded. “The majority of the work is being put off until after the heist, but maintenance workers performed minimal emergency repairs.”  
  
Ganimard sighed and nodded at Sherlock. “I’ll take you down to the toilet myself, Monsieur Holmes. Then I’ll radio ahead and warn the patrolling officers that John’s on his way. Do you need an escort?”  
  
John remembered the intricate patrol routes and shook his head. _No point putting a hole in their security just so I can relieve myself._ “Let them know I’m coming, but I know where it is. Thank you, though.” He tossed the coffee cup to his other hand, looking to find a trash can to throw it away, and stepped past Sherlock to the door. “I’ll call you when I get back so you can let me in, yeah?”  
  
“Alright. Be careful,” Sherlock cautioned, as he, too, swept from the room. John grinned and stepped into the hall, half expecting Lupin to jump out at him from around the corner. The only response he got was a curious stare from the officers outside. A second later, the radios crackled with French, and they grinned at him and stepped aside. _Ganimard must have warned ahead for me like he promised._  
  
The halls were eerily empty except for the multiple security officers; John found himself walking more softly to avoid making noise and peering at each officer as he passed. _I wouldn’t put it past Lupin to impersonate a security officer and…what, exactly? Sherlock’s the real obstacle here, not me. Relax, Watson; you’re being paranoid._ Still, he couldn’t help tensing at every guard he passed, breathing a sigh of relief as he stepped into the toilet.  
  
Deciding to err on the side of paranoia, John checked the room to make sure there weren’t any thieves lurking before stepping to the urinal. After, as he lathered the soap onto his hands, shoulders relaxing at the utter lack of _anything,_ the lights flickered and went out. “Shit,” he hissed, rinsing the last of the foam off and feeling his way back to the door. _It’s started, and I’m all the way out here! Get ready, Sherlock._  
  
His hand brushed against the handle just as the lights came back on, nearly blinding him, and he stumbled out into the hall, hesitating with indecision. _What do I do? Try to find Sherlock and risk letting Lupin into the restoration room? Find a security officer and wait it out?_ One such officer came rushing around the corner, looking frazzled, then grinned in relief upon seeing John. “Monsieur Watson?” he asked, coming to a halt just under a metre away. “I was told you would be near here. Please, come with me.” The radio on his belt was practically ringing with frantic French across the frequency.  
  
 _Well, that’s one dilemma solved,_ John thought, trotting beside him as they made their ways back toward the staircase. “Are we going back to the restoration room?” he asked, glancing toward the _Mona Lisa_ ’s room as they reached the stairs.  
  
“Not exactly,” the guard replied in a low voice. John blinked in realisation, dread settling in his stomach, but before he could whirl and confront Lupin, the thief grabbed him in a chokehold and pressed a cloth to his nose.

_Chloroform_ – Fuck! Struggling against the urge to inhale, John jabbed his elbow back at Lupin’s gut. A gust of air whooshed past his ear as Lupin lost his breath, but he didn’t loosen his grip. _Dammit, let go of me! Why did you even come after me, anyway?!_   
  
Despite his training and efforts, Lupin was larger and stronger. John’s vision started going dark, and he sucked in a breath entirely against his will, instantly feeling his head get lighter. _No no no no no…_ The burn in his lungs forced him to draw in another ragged breath, though, and his muscles began to go limp. Just as his eyes slipped shut, he realised, _He was waiting for me when I came out of the toilet. I was the target all along.  
  
Sherlock…_   


* * *

“Wake up, Monsieur Watson.”   
  
John coughed, gagging against the pungent odour of smelling salts and a thick, cloying taste on his tongue. He groaned, head lolling on his shoulders, and turned his face into the wind to wake him up. _Wind?_ Eyes snapping open, he whirled, swinging at Lupin.   
  
The clink of a handcuff chain preceded a spasm of pain as he twisted his injured shoulder too far. _I’m handcuffed to a pole – on the roof of the Louvre?_ He shook his head, trying to regain his wits. “Lupin,” he rasped.   
  
Lupin – still in his security uniform – knelt before him, just out of kicking range. “I’m terribly sorry about this, Monsieur, but it is necessary. At least you got a free coffee out of the deal, even if it was laced with a diuretic.”   
  
_How the hell is this necessary?!_ The chill wind was quickly clearing his head, and he shifted until he was crouched in front of the pole instead of leaning against it. His shoulders practically sighed in relief as the position reduced the strain on the joints. “And what, exactly, does abducting me accomplish?” _Sherlock certainly wouldn’t have been looking for a diuretic in the coffee, considering caffeine itself is one._ “Sherlock is still guarding the painting.” _Is he planning to ransom me?_ John shivered.   
  
“No, actually, he’s not,” Lupin responded. “Everyone will have noticed by now that the painting they’re guarding is a fake.” He glanced at a device in his hand, ignoring John’s shock. “Perhaps because _Le Pied-Bot_ is back in its place on the wall.”   
  
“What?” _That makes no sense. If Lupin was planning to steal the painting, why put it_ back? _Unless – Unless the theft was just a lure. He staged the whole thing to get us here, and we’re the real target._   
  
“I removed the painting yesterday after you and Monsieur Holmes returned to your hotel,” Lupin explained, glancing back at him, “while it was being transferred to the restoration room.” He looked back at the device. “Ah, there we go.”   
  
John twisted, trying to get a glimpse. “What is that?” _Please don’t let it be a bomb._   
  
“It’s a line into the CCTV system. Though, it’s not very closed-circuited with a radio transmitter installed, is it?” Lupin turned it so that John could see the screen. “Monsieur Holmes has just figured out that you’re missing.”   
  
_Oh, Sherlock._ John’s heart clenched at Sherlock’s clearly panicked movements. _I’m okay – for now._ He gritted his teeth and glared at Lupin. “What do you want with us?”   
  
“You still haven’t figured out my clue about _Le Pied-Bot,_ have you? Calm yourself, Doctor. I mean you no harm.”   
  
“Yeah, I’m having a little trouble believing that right now,” John snarled, “seeing how you’ve got me chained to a pole on the roof of the Louvre.” He jangled the chain for emphasis.   
  
“I’m not planning to _keep_ you,” Lupin chuckled, holding up the key to the cuffs. He dropped it on the roof a metre out of John’s reach. “I’ll leave this for your companion when he arrives.” _When he arrives?_ John blinked in confusion, but Lupin turned his attention back to the screen, flipping through several feeds. “He’s found the second clue already. I’m impressed.”

“Sorry, ‘clue’?” _This whole thing is making less and less sense._  
  
“Yes, clue. We can’t just wait here for someone to stumble in on us, can we? I left a series of hints to guide Monsieur Holmes to our present location. At the rate he’s going, he should arrive in less than five minutes. I had expected at least fifteen to speak with you in private, but it appears I must cut our session short.”  
  
“What are you planning to do when he arrives?” _As soon as Sherlock shows up, Lupin will be effectively caught; he’s no match for Sherlock’s speed and flexibility. He must realise that. Unless he’s lying about intending me no harm; a trapped criminal is a deadly criminal – no matter what ‘nonviolent’ ideology he might claim._  
  
“I’m going to talk to him,” Lupin replied, “and then I’m going to leave.”  
  
John stared at him. “That’s it?”  
  
“That’s it.”  
  
“You’re insane.”  
  
Lupin grinned at him. “So I’ve been told.” He glanced back at the screen and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, clever. I didn’t expect that.” Louder, “You might as well take a human form, Monsieur. I know you’re here.”  
  
 _Sherlock!_ John strained his neck to peer past Lupin, just in time to see Sherlock reform near the edge of the roof. _He must have climbed up from a window._ He realised that Sherlock’s skin had blurred almost beyond recognition in panic, and he glanced down to see a raised line make its way across the roof.  
  
“John?” Sherlock asked, almost ignoring Lupin altogether. “You’re alright?”  
  
Abruptly, John recognised the parallels between their current tableau and the confrontation with Moriarty. _Oh, hell._ He stretched a foot out to the tendril winding across the roof, trying to project all the comfort he could through the contact. John himself could feel the sharp burst of Sherlock’s fear through the connection. _God, he’s terrified. I’m okay. It’s okay. Don’t panic._ Sherlock immediately regained some measure of his definition, and they shared a shaky smile.  
  
“Oh,” Lupin breathed, glancing between them. “I – my apologies. I didn’t put as much faith in those rumours from England as I perhaps should have.” John had a moment to wonder what he was referring to before Lupin stepped further aside and waved Sherlock forward. “By all means.”  
  
They both stared at him, nonplussed at the easy way he gave up his only hostage; but Sherlock coolly moved to John’s side, picking the lock of the handcuffs as he did so, with no move of interference from Lupin. “You left the painting behind,” Sherlock noted, pointedly not grabbing John’s freed hand. The hidden tendril winding up his ankle was another matter entirely. “You lost.”  
  
Lupin chuckled, taking a few more steps away from them. “No, I did exactly as I said I would. Though, I am sorry that I caused you so much distress in doing so. I hadn’t anticipated the depth of your relationship.” _Oh._ That’s _what he was referring to._ John tensed, already anticipating the renewed spate of rumours that were sure to spring up when Lupin spoke of this in the _Echo de France._ “By the end of the day today, I will have liberated my target.”  
  
“So, you’re coming back,” Sherlock summarised. _Great. I’m bloody well not leaving Sherlock’s side without a body guard the rest of the day._ The tendril around his ankle tightened protectively, and John noticed a similar lump surreptitiously winding closer to Lupin.  
  
“Oh, no; this is my only visit. In fact, it will be my last visit.” Lupin grinned, tilting his head rakishly to the side. “You might say that I was – _inspired_ – by your work. I’m giving up theft altogether. Turning over a new leaf, as it were.” He shrugged. “I’m thinking of trying my hand at security consulting. What do you think?”  
  
“You’re quitting?” John blurted. _Can you even quit crime when you’re at Lupin’s level?_ “Then why attempt this heist at all?”  
  
Lupin glanced at the ground, directly at Sherlock’s tendril, and took a few more steps away. “Several reasons. One would be as a symbol of my newfound devotion to my nation and my people.”

“By costing the Louvre thousands of dollars in increased security measures?” Sherlock questioned dryly, holding the tendril motionless against the roof.  
  
“By returning a priceless portrait which I’ve had in my possession for years,” Lupin returned. “The _Mona Lisa_ that has been hanging in the hall for the last decade – the one that I stole a few weeks ago – is a fake.”  
  
 _That’s impossible!_ Someone _would have noticed by now._ John’s incredulity must have shown on his face because Lupin grinned and continued, “I had the forgery made for me by a brilliant artist – I believe you encountered his work before with Vermeer’s _Delft at Dusk_? No one realised that the _Mona Lisa_ was a fake, and I kept the real portrait carefully preserved in my base of operations.”  
  
“So, you organised a second heist as a way to return it?” John guessed.  
  
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock interjected, skin rippling a bit as he got caught up in the mystery. “Why not return it as silently as you stole it? Why all” – he waved his arm around to encompass the chaos reigning downstairs – “this?”  
  
“A last challenge before I disappeared? The opportunity to do a small public service and use my admittedly infamous reputation to do some good? Like I told you, by the end of the day, _Le Pied-Bot_ will be liberated.” Lupin took a few more steps away, clothes rippling in the wind.  
  
“So you’ve said. What do you mean by that, anyway?”  
  
“You never did figure it out, then. I tried to give you as many hints as I could, too,” Lupin mourned. “ _Le Pied-Bot_ is _you,_ Monsieur Holmes.” With that, he spun, grabbing a bundle of fabric from behind an air-conditioning unit and securing it around his waist, and leaped off the edge of the roof.  
  
 _“Shit!”_ John hissed, leaping for him. Sherlock moved with incredible speed to the edge of the roof, but John knew it was already too late. _Even if that was a parachute, he won’t have enough time to deploy it before he hits the ground!_ Accordingly, the small, devoted crowd outside burst into noise as the thief fell. “What the hell was he thinking?!”  
  
“Hang glider,” Sherlock reported, sagging in relief. “It was a hang glider. He’s almost to the Seine already.” John caught up, catching a glimpse of a dark shadow heading straight for a lit boat. “That was his escape route; no wonder I couldn’t figure it out – among everything else I had wrong.”  
  
“Jesus,” John gasped, trying to calm his racing heart. _I thought for sure he was dead._ He sucked in a breath as Sherlock turned to him and knocked him to the ground, startled yet again by the sudden embrace of limbs devolving into an enveloping mass of twisting tentacles. “Sherlock?”  
  
“You didn’t come back, and I realised it was a trap,” Sherlock rambled, blurring and clutching at John’s clothes. “I was sure that Lupin was a Pro-Earthling and that my stupid, _stupid_ trust in his nonviolence policy was going to get you killed. I thought you were dead, and then I found the clues leading me here, and he was standing over you and it was like Moriarty all over again and all I could think was _‘I can’t lose him now; I only just told him I love him.’_ John, I was so scared.” He paled and buried his face in John’s chest.  
  
John wrapped his arms around the alien, fighting the tremors as he realised how badly Lupin’s stunt had terrified Sherlock. _It’s okay,_ he projected, emoting the sentiments in his head in the hopes that hearing it in his own language would help Sherlock believe it. _We’re okay; we’re safe. I love you – I’m so sorry I scared you like that._ He suspected that they’d both be keeping each other close in the near future. _I love you, I love you, I love you._  
  
Eventually, Sherlock calmed enough to loosen his grip and pull away, lifting John to his feet as he rose. “He didn’t hurt you at all, did he?” he asked, one hand running down John’s side and back up to cup his face.

“I’m fine,” John denied. “We – we should probably go back downstairs. I’m sure everyone’s worked themselves into a fine state of panic by now.”  
  
“Right. Of course.” Neither moved for a good minute longer, though, and when they finally went down, Sherlock’s skin retained heavy blurring.  


* * *

_“Monsieur Holmes!”_ The first security officer they passed gaped and immediately drew his radio to his mouth. _“C’est Messieurs Holmes et Watson; ils sont ici!”_ He grabbed Sherlock’s hand in his own gloved fingers, distraught in his panic. “Monsieur, we were so worried when first Monsieur Watson disappeared and then you left – what happened? Did you find Lupin?”   
  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied, allowing the officer to tow him along toward _Le Pied-Bot_ ’s display. John followed along, hand caught in Sherlock’s unyielding grasp. Given how long it had taken Sherlock to release him on the roof, John knew the moment they were back in private Sherlock would latch back onto him. “He escaped.”   
  
“A shame, Monsieur, but at least we still have the painting,” the officer lamented. “Though, who knows when that devil will decide something else in our collection is worth his attention.” They passed more and more officers as they approached the painting.   
  
“I believe the rest of your collection is safe,” Sherlock said as they stepped into the gallery. “And, there it is – safe and sound.”   
  
“For now,” the head of security growled, Ganimard hovering just behind him. “That thief could have done all sorts of damage to it while he had it.” He waved over a few guards and barked some instructions in French; they nodded and rushed out. “We will take it back to the restoration room and check it,” he decided. “With any luck, Lupin will decide that the painting is not worth his effort and give up for the night.”   
  
“He already has,” Sherlock announced. Ganimard whipped his head around then winced, rubbing his neck. “Lupin won’t be returning tonight; _Le Pied-Bot_ is safe. In fact, he said that he returned the _Mona Lisa,_ too.”   
  
_“What?!”_ The head of security practically sprinted out of the room to the _Mona Lisa,_ trailed by most of the officers.   
  
Ganimard, however, was staring at them in something akin to shock. “Lupin…returned _La Joconde_ ?” he echoed. “He made no demands?”   
  
“None,” John confirmed, “but he did tell us that the painting that’s hung there for years was a fake. He says he’s had the original this entire time.”   
  
“Impossible,” Ganimard murmured, eyes unfocused. “He may have a sense of justice, twisted though it may be, but returning the original _Mona Lisa_ without any form of repayment? That’s so unlike him.”   
  
A scandalised shout rang from the _Mona Lisa_ ’s room, and everyone twisted to stare in that direction. _“Mensonges!”_ the head of security cried, reappearing down the hall. “Lies! _La Joconde_ is still missing; Lupin has tricked us!”   
  
John blinked, a cold panic settling in his gut. _If Lupin was lying about that, then he could have been lying about_ everything… _but then why give back_ Le Pied-Bot? Beside him, Sherlock froze with a blank expression before spinning and tugging John to the _Mona Lisa_ room. “Something’s not right,” he muttered, and John almost laughed at the understatement. “It doesn’t add up.”   
  
However, when they turned the corner they found that the painting was, indeed, still missing. In its stead, however, a note had been pinned to the wall; John and Sherlock nudged their way past the security officers straining to read it.   
  
“‘You cannot solve one without solving the other,’” Sherlock translated.   
  
_One must be the_ Mona Lisa _’s location,_ John reasoned, _but what’s the other?_ Le Pied-Bot _? Or, something else entirely?_ Beside him, Sherlock went abruptly still before whirling and rushing out of the room, hand still clasped around John’s wrist. John stumbled before racing alongside him, followed by a good portion of the guards. _Sherlock –?!_

“He wants me to figure out how he stole the _Mona Lisa_ the first time,” Sherlock breathed, skidding to a halt in the hall where the security cameras had lost track of Lupin. “I thought it wasn’t important, so I kept putting it off, but it was all part of the bigger puzzle – idiot! I should have realised as soon as he sent me on that hunt for you. Now, where did he go from here?”  
  
Sherlock muttered to himself as he paced the room, John trailing after him by the wrist. “We should assume Lupin is a legitimate member of the staff here and has been for a considerable time, as I didn’t meet him during the interviews of new employees. Additionally, everyone entering the building has passed finger-printing and been kept with at least two or three other staff members at all times. So, why disguise himself on the day of the original theft? It would be much easier for him to perform searches with his fellow officers than try to evade them.”  
  
He whirled, nearly dislodging his grip on John. “It has to be the washroom. The camera angles don’t cover the edge of the wall between the entrance and the washroom; Lupin must have gone in there.” He strode across the room and stepped inside, John and a few others trailing after.  
  
“No cameras in here for privacy reasons,” Sherlock noted, “so he could have taken a different disguise and escaped his fellow security officers’ notice when he emerged. But, why bother? He would have known by that point that no one had seen him or connected him with his official museum identity; why take the extra time to change? And, that still doesn’t explain how he smuggled the painting past the searches at the exits.” He froze. _“Oh!”_  
  
“Sorry, what?” John interjected, glancing back at the guards. They looked as confused as he felt.  
  
Sherlock snorted, releasing John’s wrist, and paced the room, examining the walls. John clenched his hand, hating the sudden cold on his bared skin, and discretely rubbed at it with his other hand. “He knew that the Louvre would check everyone’s belongings as they left,” Sherlock narrated, “so he stored the _Mona Lisa_ here. It never left the museum at all; he had no need for the fake anyway, and I didn’t examine the toilets closely enough because I assumed a thief of his calibre would have already cleared the evidence. He is _clever,_ isn’t he?” Sherlock stepped into the stalls and checked them one by one. “So, that leaves the question: If he knew that no one recognized him and that he wouldn’t be found with any evidence on him, why bother changing his disguise? We know from the security tapes that he must have done so before he left.”  
  
“Lupin wanted us” – _you_ – “to find the original _Mona Lisa,_ ” John realised. “It was another clue, wasn’t it?” _He effectively disappeared in this room, knowing that Sherlock would find the discrepancy and follow it. That means he must have hidden the real painting somewhere in this room, along with the fake one._  
  
“Yes, exactly.” Sherlock paused in the last stall, hands hovering over an air vent. “And, here she is.” He pulled the grate away and set it aside. The next item to appear in his grasp was about half a metre wide and three-quarters of a metre long.

“ _La Joconde,”_ the man beside John breathed. “He found it.” Dead silence reigned for about half a second before someone stepped forward and demanded that Sherlock be _careful_ ; the painting had been through enough traumas already!  


* * *

Much to the Louvre’s eventual relief, Lupin had taken great care to avoid damage to what all experts would bemusedly agreed was the original painting: It had been encased in an air-tight case when Sherlock removed it from the vent. The frame still had the maple crosspieces that had been replaced with sycamore several years earlier, and the colours and contrast were just an increment brighter than in the painting that had been stolen in the previous weeks. Or, so John was assured. Frankly, he doubted that he’d have been able to tell which was which even if he’d been there when they’d been placed side-by-side for comparison.   
  
All that would happen in the weeks that followed, however. Immediately after the discovery of the _Mona Lisa_ and the resulting frantic movement to ensure that it and _Le Pied-Bot_ – and as much of the rest of the collection as possible – were undamaged and safe, John and Sherlock went back to the hotel and curled up with each other on the bed. The rush of the mystery faded, leaving Sherlock to work through the terror of the early morning. He blurred and clutched at John’s shirt, form jerking between human and alien as he alternated between murmuring disjointed phrases about how he’d almost lost John and attempting to wrap himself around John until not a breath of the human was exposed. John, for his part, held Sherlock as close as he could and pressed kisses to every bit that came in reach. _It’s okay,_ he tried to convey. _We’re safe; I’ve got you._   
  
“I love you,” Sherlock gasped at one point. John whispered it back and buried a hand in Sherlock’s curls. He fought back fury that Sherlock, who had been his emotional support through almost every crisis they’d encountered, had been reduced to this gasping, grasping creature. _Lupin didn’t know what he’d done,_ he reminded himself, trying to stay calm. In his arms, Sherlock spasmed and wrapped himself even closer; John forced away everything but soothing comfort and projected that as loudly as he could.   
  
“I’m here,” he murmured, lips brushing the crown of Sherlock’s head. It kept switching between strands of hair and the rounded surface of Sherlock’s natural form. “I’m here. We’re okay.”   
  
Slowly, Sherlock settled against him, form blurring in patches as he calmed with the alien equivalent of hiccupping sobs. John held him through it all, suppressing the slight twinges of discomfort where Sherlock pressed back just a little too hard, and focused on love and comfort. _I’m here; I’ve got you; I love you.  
  
I love you._   


* * *

Somehow, John managed to fall asleep around nine o’clock, and when he woke up again he heard Anthea’s voice in the sitting room. A quick spot-check showed that Sherlock had left a tendril wrapped around John’s waist and moved the bulk of his form out of the room. The appendage twitched and drifted up to caress John’s face, and he smiled as he leaned into the contact. _It looks like he’s mostly recovered,_ he thought. Only mostly, though, because the tendril around his waist was a significant step up from a thin grasp on his wrist. Yawning, John glanced at the time – almost two – and rolled out of bed.   
  
Anthea smiled at him when he stumbled out of the bedroom, still in his clothes from the day before. “Sherlock’s been telling me about the heist,” she explained. “Sounds like it was eventful.”   
  
_That’s one way to put it._ John shook his head. “Well, the paintings are back where they belong; I guess that’s what really matters, right?”

She nodded, but Sherlock interrupted. “Both Delacroix and Ganimard want to speak with us one last time before we leave. Moreau is on stand-by to take us to both the Louvre and the police prefecture, but we decided to let you sleep in rather than rush around.”   
  
“Thanks for that,” John replied honestly. “I’ll take a shower and change, and then I’ll be ready.” He tilted his head at Anthea. “Are you coming with us?”   
  
“Can’t,” she declined. “I have a few things to tie up at the embassy before I can even arrange for our flight home. If all goes well, we should be leaving tonight.”   
  
John blinked. _We’re leaving so soon? I guess, now that the crisis has passed, it makes sense for us to get back to a secure location…but I was hoping Sherlock and I would get some opportunity to experience Paris._ He sighed. _Then again, considering how badly Lupin shook him up, maybe it’s a good thing that we’re leaving France behind._ “Give me half an hour, Sherlock, and we’ll go.”   


* * *

They went to the Louvre first, where the lines extended from the ticket queues out to the streets. John stared, wide-eyed, as Moreau guided them through the throng to an employee’s entrance. _No wonder Delacroix didn’t want to close the Louvre today,_ he thought. _The admissions from today alone might cover the expenses for the security systems last night._   
  
Fortunately, the crowds made it easy to avoid attention as they made their ways to Delacroix’s office. The President Director welcomed them with tea, and John hummed in pleasant surprise at the quality. “I’m sorry to call you back so soon after you left,” Delacroix said, “but I wasn’t sure when you were leaving, and I wanted to speak to you before then.”   
  
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers against his chest. “I will, of course, give you a report of my findings and a list of suggestions for security improvements –”   
  
“Monsieur, you misunderstand. I didn’t request your presence to question you further, though I do appreciate your offer; I merely wished to express my thanks for you assistance.”   
  
“Oh.” Sherlock’s face was painfully blank, and John felt a bittersweet tug on his heart. _You’re more than a brain in others’ service, Sherlock; I’m just glad to see people acknowledging your altruism. You shouldn’t expect everyone to lose interest in you after you’ve stopped being useful._ “It was my pleasure.”   
  
Delacroix smiled and continued, “And, I wanted you to know that while I was initially wary of inviting you, an extraterrestrial at the core of the greatest controversy in our era, your performance has instilled in me the greatest of faith for your integrity. Please, if you should ever need aid that I can provide, do not hesitate to ask.” Perhaps sensing Sherlock’s shock – even John was thrown by the intensity of his speech, Delacroix twisted and pulled a large painting from behind his desk. “In the meantime, I can only hope this is sufficient to represent my gratitude on behalf of myself and the Louvre as a whole.”   
  
For a few moments, Sherlock remained stock-still with surprise. He shook himself and took the portrait, tilting it so that John could see. “ _Le Pied-Bot_ ?” John asked, recognising the image. “You’re giving us a print of the original?”   
  
“It seemed fitting,” Delacroix said. “ _Le Pied-Bot_ brought you here, after all; while I can’t give you the actual painting, at least a replica can accompany you home.” He shrugged.   
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said at last. “I – thank you.” He ran a hand over the length of the print, taking in the details, and a nearly-heartbreaking smile bloomed on his face. “I really do appreciate this.”   
  
John shifted and surreptitiously slid his hand over to rest against Sherlock’s oddly-textured thigh. _Love,_ he projected as best he could, and Sherlock’s smile gentled into something more familiar. _I love you. And, maybe everyone else will come to love you, too – just hopefully not in the same way I do._   


* * *

After the meeting at the Louvre, Moreau took them back to the prefecture of police, where they settled in across Ganimard’s desk. “I saw Lupin,” he introduced, surprising John into half-falling into his seat. Behind him, Moreau stiffened. “Or, rather, Lupin saw me.”

“Explain,” Sherlock ordered, sliding into his chair with unrealistic grace.  
  
Ganimard exhaled and settled into what John recognised as a reporting pose. “When I got home this morning, Lupin was waiting on the balcony outside my bedroom. I had just changed into my sleepwear when he knocked on the window and invited me out.”  
  
“But, you didn’t arrest him or call for backup?” John pressed.  
  
“What would it have served? Lupin would have seen me make a phone call, and he has proven with alarming frequency that I cannot keep him in custody without help. I could have called for backup and, in doing so, frightened Lupin away; or I could have acquiesced and heard what he wanted to say. I chose to listen.”  
  
“So, what did he say?”  
  
Here, Ganimard hesitated, eyes going distant. “He wanted to say goodbye; he says he’s giving up theft and taking a more altruistic career. And, Lupin… He thanked me. Can you believe that? He thanked me for ‘playing the game’ with him and keeping him in check.” Ganimard shook his head. “I barely understand it myself, but I think he’s actually sad to end our antagonism. God knows I’ll be glad to see him gone.”  
  
 _Liar,_ John thought, but it was pity that coloured the sentiment, not disdain. _I think you enjoyed the competition; you seemed jealous when Lupin turned his attention to Sherlock. You’ll miss him, too, won’t you?_  
  
“There was more,” Ganimard continued, straightening his drooping posture. “Lupin told me about the case of the Countess’s black pearl; I was wrong.” The expression that flitted across his face reminded John more of guilt than indignation. “I was so certain that Lupin was responsible – especially after he published that article in the _Echo de France_ about having the pearl – but he told me the details. I misjudged him.”  
  
“What happened?” John prodded when Ganimard fell silent.  
  
“He had planned to steal the pearl, but when he broke into the countess’s room she was already dead and the pearl gone. It was completely unrelated; Lupin had nothing to do with the murder.” Ganimard glanced up, eyebrow twitching in amusement, and smiled drily at Sherlock. “It seems your methods influenced him, after all: Lupin claimed to have examined the crime scene and found evidence to use against the true murderer, whom he traced using a combination of forensic science and his own brand of surveillance. Lupin confronted the murderer – simply a greedy employee – and reclaimed the pearl, at which point he wrote the article.”  
  
Silence reigned for a few seconds while everyone digested that, and Ganimard seemed to deflate as he proceeded. “He also expressed his disappointment with my willingness to believe him capable of murder. I suppose I can cede the point: Although he has occasionally violated his nonviolent policy, he’s never dealt lasting physical damages.”  
  
“People change,” Sherlock replied softly. “It wasn’t a difficult leap to think that Lupin had, too.”  
  
“Regardless, I wronged him.” Ganimard snorted and ran a hand down his face. “And, now I am feeling guilty for wronging a criminal. Forgive me; I am still rather shocked by the situation. It was not my intention to carry on during our meeting. I felt you should know the truth about the black pearl, and I wished to thank you for your involvement with the attempted theft. You have been invaluable, and – much as it may grate on me to say it – I doubt we could have managed as much without you. Thank you.”  
  
Sherlock bowed his head. “As I said to Monsieur Delacroix, the pleasure was mine.”  


* * *

Anthea was waiting for them when they returned to the hotel, and she summarised their flight plans for the evening. “We should be back at the safe house with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft by eight, so if you’ll pack your belongings…?”   
  
“Of course,” John replied, dodging as Sherlock passed with the replica of _Le Pied-Bot_ under his arm. “Shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

As their departure time neared, Moreau took them to the airport and escorted them through the terminals to the same plane they'd rode in. "Thank you for your help," he said, glancing between the three of them. "On behalf of my government and my people, France welcomes you – and it will welcome you in the future, should you wish to return."   
  
John blinked and had to fight a grin. _Okay, so he could be exaggerating about talking for all of his people – that rally was enough to show that not everyone is welcoming of Sherlock, even if Ganimard and Delacroix were heartening in their support – but we're getting an open invitation_ back. _That's – that's brilliant._   
  
Beside him, Sherlock smiled and replied, "Thank you, Monsieur. Perhaps when our situation has settled slightly, we will take you up on that."   
  
It was only when they were on the plane and off the ground that John noticed Anthea had stayed silent. He tilted his head, examining her profile, and his eyes widened as he identified the expression on her face. _She's worried and jealous,_ he realised. _Why -? Oh. She expressed concern that allowing Sherlock and Mycroft to assist other countries would result in England losing its claim on them. Does she actually think that Sherlock and Mycroft are going to move to France just because they opened their borders to us?_   
  
He glanced at Sherlock, who turned to face him with a raised eyebrow. _If nothing else, I know that they’ll stay for Anthea and me._ John smiled and shook his head, placing his hand on the seat cushion between them. Sherlock blinked and wrapped his own around it, scrutinising John for a few more seconds before turning his attention back out the window. _After all, I certainly don’t know enough French to live in France. But, it might not hurt to brush up a little. You never know…_   
  
Sherlock turned back and tilted his head, clearly wondering where the thought had come from, but John grinned and shook his head, looking out his own window and watching the landscape pass below them.   


* * *

Mycroft met them at the door of the safe house with his laptop in hand and a grin on his face. “Well done,” he congratulated, pulling Sherlock into the house and wrapping him in an embrace. Sherlock immediately brightened and hugged him back before snagging the laptop and skimming the web page on the screen.   
  
John came in next, followed by Anthea, who secured the door behind them. Mycroft looked up at him, and his grin gentled into a smile as he dragged John into his arms. “Welcome home,” he whispered.   
  
“Glad to be here,” John murmured in return, dropping his luggage so that he could squeeze back. After those weeks of thinking that he’d never again be permitted Mycroft’s touch, he’d cherished each caress – a hug like this was enough to make his heart swell. The knowledge that it was representative of his acceptance as Sherlock’s boyfriend, not just as Mycroft’s adoptive family, only made the moment more poignant.   
  
When they released each other, John collected his bags and stepped over to stand beside Sherlock while Mycroft turned to Anthea. “What are you reading?” John asked, glancing at the screen. _More French. Lovely._   
  
Behind him, Mycroft said, “I have a hug for you, too, Anthea – unless you’d rather just have a hand shake. Excellent work on catching the mole and getting all that information.”   
  
Sherlock replied, “Lupin wrote up the theft of _Le Pied-Bot_ – or, more accurately, the lack of theft. It was posted several hours after the heist, and it’s got thousands of comments already. You’ll want to read it for yourself; I’m sure that someone’s translated it to English by now.” Sherlock flattened a palm and balanced the laptop at chest height as he ran a search with the other hand.

Though they pretended to focus on their own conversation, they both heard Anthea hesitate before replying with forced levity, “I’d hate to be the odd one out. And, if ousting an entire criminal organisation isn’t just reason for a celebratory hug, what is?”   
  
John carefully did not look offer his shoulder at the rustle of fabric. _Good for you, Mycroft._ “English would be helpful,” he told Sherlock, sharing a grin with the alien as Anthea walked past, head high and cheeks flushed. Mycroft paused beside them, taking John’s luggage and promising to take it to his room, and followed after Anthea.   
  
“Seems like things are moving along well on all romantic fronts,” Sherlock murmured, brushing his shoulder against John’s. He handed over the laptop and led them to the sitting room, where Mrs. Hudson was watching the news. She immediately engaged Sherlock in conversation, demanding to know everything that had happened in France; John settled into a chair and read the article, secure in the knowledge that Sherlock’s account of the events would be heavily censored where necessary.   
  
_My foes, fans and fellow Frenchmen,  
  
I had the most enlightening experiences this last week when I faced the famed Mr. Sherlock Holmes in the battlefield of the Louvre, and I am sure that you are all eager to hear my tale. But before I elaborate, I must explain the numerous incidents which led to this event.  
  
First, this is not the first time I have made contact with Holmes. I learned of him early in his career as a detective of nearly mystical powers, and I, too, was incredulous of his reputation of solving seemingly perfect crimes. Many of you, I imagine, expect me to admit that the mystery of his accomplishments is explained by Holmes’ inhuman abilities, that as an alien he has supernatural abilities which allow him to perceive the truth – perhaps through invasive mental techniques.  
  
This is not the case. At least, it is not the complete story. A year ago, I myself stood on the sidelines and watched Holmes solve a perfect crime – one that, I admit, had even myself stumped! – and I was awed by the train of precise deductions he made through seemingly ordinary observation._ _  
  
The first time I faced Mr. Sherlock Holmes was only a few days before he was first revealed to the public as nonhuman. Upon his unveiling, we all came to understand there was something extraordinary about Holmes beyond his intimidating logic and intellect. But, even knowing his great secret, I saw no sign that Holmes stole his information from another man’s mind. In fact, he found proof that a painting was fraudulent through the method we all must take: Research. I followed Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson throughout the day of that case, and we spent nearly the entire day inside an art museum, examining the works of Vermeer. It was this research which allowed Mr. Holmes to use his unusual abilities to find that the fake painting was made with materials unlike those used by Vermeer.  
  
Frankly, I was astounded. I revealed myself to Holmes just long enough to express my awe and fled before he could apprehend me. Here was a being with abilities beyond our own, certainly – as has been revealed – enough to organise a complete take-over of our oblivious little planet; yet, he spent his days solving crimes? How extraordinary, indeed!  
  
I left England and returned to France wholly convinced that Holmes had uncovered a tool that every human can exploit. Since then, I have striven to match his technique. In fact, his methods allowed me to solve the murder of the countess in the case of the black pearl and retrieve the pearl from the murderer. I believe that I upheld Mr. Holmes’ ideals with my actions by convincing the murderer to turn to a less bloody path, though I added my own twist by profiting from the ordeal. I took Mr. Holmes’ deeds to heart and pressed myself to a level equal to his own._

_However, it was only when he and his brother went public with their natures and expressed their reasons for visiting our planet that I came to understand how inferior I still was. As I have previously expressed, I was amazed that someone such as Holmes could be using his abilities purely to rid the streets of criminals, even if I must count myself among them. But, to find that his entire purpose here was to bring peace to my brethren across the world? Well, you may imagine that I felt rather ashamed of myself.  
  
My reputation as non-violent is, perhaps, exaggerated. Although I have never caused permanent injury, I have compromised my pledge to deal only financial harm. Even then, I have trespassed upon my fellow man to better my own position. After seeing the resolve of a being as altruistic as Holmes, I came to realise that while I may fancy myself something of a pacifist I, too, am part of the problem Holmes is here to solve.  
  
So, I decided to become a part of the solution. I stole the_ Mona Lisa. _  
  
This was not as counter-productive as you might imagine. I have actually had the real_ Mona Lisa _in my possession for years; the painting which hung on the walls of the Louvre until recently was a fake. Using my position in the Louvre’s security forces – I’ve been employed as a security guard for nearly two years, now – I prepared my escape and carried it out exactly as planned. Shortly thereafter, I sent the warning of the theft that has drawn so much attention.  
  
Mr. Holmes was gracious enough to respond favourably to my request, and I used the opportunity to return the original_ Mona Lisa _to its rightful place. I have created a second article with further details of the thefts themselves, should they be of interest; here, however, I will focus on my interactions with Holmes and his companion. Throughout their stay in Paris, I left them several clues about the painting I targeted, Ribera’s_ Club-Footed Boy. _I have attached a picture of the painting here, which I will now explain.  
  
The boy is a beggar, staring down at the viewer – at us. He unashamedly displays his malformations and disfigurement, which even the title draws attention to, but his face is split with a grin. In his hand, he holds a paper that recognises his right to beg for money. He takes up the height of the frame with his own form, and his crutch, balanced across his shoulder, fills the image horizontally. This beggar is aware of his place in society and wields his disfigurement to appeal to our compassion, using his unique nature to convince us to act in his favour. This should sound familiar, as we’re seeing it on a larger scale with the two aliens in our midst.  
  
We should hold no illusions that the aliens are incapable of hiding themselves among us. Every Pro-Earth argument purports as much, especially the ones regarding their physical abilities that are confirmed by the aliens themselves. If they wanted to, they could change their shape and form and appear as someone different every day; they remain as they are by choice because they wish to gain our cooperation. Consider the trials they have faced in the last few weeks and question whether these are the actions of beings who wish to manipulate and harm us. There are much easier ways to go about this than permitting the common man to defile and defame them, as we have._

_Instead, they have chosen to act as the beggar, submitting themselves before us exactly as they are and relying on their extraterrestrial origin as their only authority. We hold the choice to give them a chance or deny them basic human rights, and it appears that they are content to leave that decision to us. My fellow humans, we have the power to determine the fate of our world. Personally, after conversing with Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, I believe that they are speaking the truth when they say that the aliens’ purpose here is to bring us peace.  
  
I know that many of you must be shaking your heads in disgust, wondering how I could have been brainwashed into believing such nonsense. You are entitled to your opinions, of course, but I beg of you to consider the logic of the arguments I have made herein. Do not dismiss the Holmes’ message as a lie merely because you are frightened of their abilities; instead, think of how long they’ve been present on our planet and how little damage they’ve wrought in that time. If you are so wary of them, you must believe them capable of much more. Why, then, has it not happened?  
  
This will be my last submission to the_ Echo de France. _I hereby retire as a thief, and as an apology for all the trouble I’ve put the museum through I am donating the black pearl to the Louvre, if the heirs of the Countess d’Andillot’s estate will permit it. To my fans, I thank you for your support through the years and urge you to turn to less harmful forms of entertainment. To my victims, I apologise and beg your forgiveness for my trespasses. To Mr. Holmes, I thank you for your role in shaping my perspective.  
  
To the rest of mankind, I wish you clear hearts and clear minds in the face of this conflict.  
  
A. Lupin_   
  
As John finished the article, his heart echoed the sentiment put so eloquently by Lupin. _And this is all any of us can ask._


	14. Bluebird of Happiness

No one said that dating an alien would be easy, of course. Although they’d already covered the ‘culture shock’ phase while living together, the entanglements of a romantic relationship brought with it a whole new set of issues. John freely acknowledged that he was a fairly physical boyfriend, which meshed well with Sherlock’s needs, and that he placed a great deal of emphasis on kissing, which did not. Not that the kissing itself was so much antithetical to Sherlock’s needs, but John’s own reaction to it didn’t exactly do wonders for Sherlock’s emotional security: Occasionally, when they had a rare spare moment of privacy in the safe house, John got carried away and pressed his open mouth to Sherlock’s. It inevitably ended with him reeling away and trying not to gag. Eventually, he resigned himself to forgoing that aspect of a relationship with Sherlock; the rest of it more than balanced it out, really.

John wasn’t the only one who ran up against difficulties, though: Sherlock had his fair share of sacrifices to make. “I can’t be close to you like I would be with one of my own kind,” he admitted that night as John curled up in bed at the Brighton and Hove safe house. “You’re just not equipped to open your mind to me or to hear me when I open mine to you.” Sherlock smoothed a hand across the wrinkles of concern in John’s forehead, closing John’s mouth when he opened it to apologise for his inadequacies. “Shh; it’s fine. You’re worth it. And, you’ve been sensing me better lately. Maybe someday I’ll be able to teach you my language.”

Neither of them truly believed it, though.

* * *

“I’ve finally got a team of scientists—don’t give me that expression, John; I vetted them myself—set up at the local hospital,” Anthea said over breakfast the morning after they’d returned to the safe house. “I will be with you at all times, and you’ll always have the option to refuse an examination or test.”

John sighed, resigning himself to at least one session with the scientists. “Do we have an appointment?” His voice reflected his displeasure with the idea.

“Tomorrow morning, yes,” Anthea replied. “Arrangements have been made, and I’d appreciate it if you at least gave them a chance.”

“Of course we will,” Mycroft said.

So, the next day John entered the lab set aside for them, fully expecting to be insulted and dehumanised again. The slightly stiff way that Sherlock and Mycroft walked beside him suggested that they were similarly wary. Anthea introduced them to the lead researcher, a Doctor Stapleton, who began by reassuring them that they were free to refuse any test the scientists wished to try and that there would be no penalisation for doing so. “We want you to feel comfortable here,” she explained. Glancing around at the sterile white walls, she added wryly, “As comfortable as possible, at least.”

The first examinations, meant to affirm the Orkney findings, were simple and unobtrusive: A basic physical for John and a short interview with the aliens. Then, Stapleton began asking questions that the Orkney scientists had omitted. John was surprised to notice that he was relaxing in the admittedly lighter atmosphere with these scientists, and the aliens seemed to feel the same.

Stapleton seemed mostly interested in the importance of the aliens’ forms and colour schemes on their biological development and social structure, though both Mycroft and Sherlock assured her that physical distinctions were irrelevant to any sort of hierarchy. John sat back and listened to them explain the process of choosing a colour—apparently a result of the parents’ personalities at the time of conception—and the stages of maturation and reproduction.

Finally, Stapleton wound down with a quick verification of the touch issue: “You’ve mentioned before that your species relies heavily on telepathic and empathic communication via physical contact. According to the notes from Orkney, you suffer noticeably after a month without contact with one of your kind and risk insanity after a year. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“Right.” Stapleton scribbled a few more notes onto her paper and nodded. “If you don’t mind, we’d love to run a few scans: X-Ray, MRI, ultrasound. You’re not magnetic, are you?”

“Not to our knowledge, no,” Mycroft said. “We should be fine to take those, though I’m not sure what you’re planning to find. Our bodies aren’t divided by brain, bone or blood; they’re pretty solid.”

“Have you ever had any of those scans?” Stapleton asked. They shook their heads. “Well, then I guess we’ll just double-check. If you’ll follow me, please. You, too, John: While we’ve got you here, we might as well make sure exposure to the aliens has no harmful effect on humans.”

_I suspect I would have figured that out by now, if it were the case,_ John thought, bemused, but he followed along anyway. Stapleton took them to the sonographer first, and they determined that John was a healthy middle-aged man and that the aliens were homogenous and solid. The X-Ray, on the other hand, brought something of a surprise.

Mycroft went through without a glitch, appearing on the screen as a dim human-shaped blur. Sherlock, on the other hand, had a bright point of white settled just to the left of what would be his sternum, if he were human. “What  _is_ that?” John asked, stomach clenching.  _That wasn’t there on Mycroft, and the rest of him looks like Mycroft did. Oh, god—something’s wrong, isn’t it?_

“I’m not sure,” Stapleton murmured, peering at the read-out. “Sherlock,” she called, stepping into the X-Ray room. “Have you done something to your chest?”

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asked as John followed her in. “John?”

John stepped forward until he was standing directly in front of Sherlock and pressed the tip of one finger into Sherlock’s ribs. “There was something on the screen,” he said, trying to rein in his fear, knowing that Sherlock would sense it. “Here. Right here. It was a block of white.”

Sherlock’s expression went startlingly blank in a way it hadn’t for a long time. Distantly, John heard Mycroft step into the room behind him, but Sherlock was extending his hand between their bodies. He curled his fingers, palm down, as if he were holding something. Feeling an odd sense of déjà vu, John held his hand underneath.

_Thunk._ A sizeable chunk of metal dropped into John’s palm, and he reflexively steadied it with his fingers. Relief flooded his system as he realised that Sherlock had just been holding one of his many tools inside his body, and he chastised himself for forgetting about that talent.  _I was panicking for nothing._ Then he recognised the object in his hand and felt his heart stutter.

“The bullet,” John murmured, tongue heavy. He swallowed and tried again. “This is the bullet. From Afghanistan.” _You kept it, all this time._

“Yes.” Sherlock was still blank-faced when John looked up at him, and the definition of his features was fading quickly. _Wait, the white spot was in his chest—oh._ Oh. John forced himself to take a deep breath through his nose and ignored the way it shuddered slightly on its way out. Silently, he held the bullet up to Sherlock’s chest, a few centimetres off-centre, and released it back into Sherlock’s hold. When it had completely disappeared, he left his palm pressed against the place where Sherlock’s heart would lie, if he were human. The details of Sherlock’s form returned in a rush, and John felt his own chest nearly go supernova with a wave of love through their contact.

* * *

John kept his distance from Sherlock for the rest of the examination and the ride back to the safe house. Not for any desire to be separated from Sherlock—quite the contrary, John suspected that if he were to so much as brush against him he would attempt to snog him senseless, taste be damned.

“Sherlock, we need to talk,” John stated as soon as the door to his room was safely closed and locked behind them. The alien barely had enough time to spin and face him, expression bewildered, before John had locked the door and pressed him back onto the bed, kneeling across his thighs.

Automatically wrapping his arms around John, Sherlock blinked up at him. “About…?”

“This,” John said, pressing one hand to Sherlock’s skin, over the bullet-heart. He shifted his weight back on Sherlock’s lap and caught Sherlock’s hand, ignoring the way the alien had gone still and silent beneath him. That hand went over John’s heart. “And this.”

The air went out of Sherlock’s chest cavity in a hushed  _whoosh._ “Ah.”

“So, let’s talk love,” John said, releasing his hold on Sherlock’s hand and leaning back into him. “Because I’d really, really like to make love to you right now”— _and I’ve been forcing myself to not touch you since the X-Ray because of that—_ “but I need to know if it means the same thing to you as it does to me.”

John felt his breath shudder in reaction to the surprise and love that rushed through him. “Okay,” Sherlock said. “What do you need to know?” He brought a hand up and carded it through John’s hair, encouraging him to nuzzle into Sherlock’s throat.

“What is sex, to you?” It was hard to concentrate with so much attainable flesh at his fingertips, even with the illusion of clothes covering most of Sherlock’s body, but John forced himself to focus. _This is important._ “It didn’t sound particularly enjoyable from the explanation in the labs, and I assure you that I have no intention of cutting off limbs.”

“That was just the biological aspect,” Sherlock explained, tilting his head back and exposing more of his throat; John obligingly burrowed into it. “Procreational sex is different from recreational sex for our species; the latter doesn’t always lead to the former, and the former is usually done separate from the latter.” As he spoke, his limbs divided themselves and twined around John’s body. “Recreational sex is significantly less physical than procreation, and it involves a complete opening and sharing of the mind with a romantic partner. I imagine that it’s similar to our community dances, but I’ve been told that it’s completely different and intensely personal.”

“Got it,” John said, smoothing one hand down Sherlock’s side and back up. He shifted, biting back a hiss as the motion dragged his groin across Sherlock’s thigh. “So, what does that entail?”

“Complete openness to one another. To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s really possible for us: You have a much stronger sensitivity to my empathic projections than you did before, but it’s still far below the average for my species.” He practically flooded John’s body with warmth and love to soften the blow, but John still winced and pulled back.

“I can’t do anything for you, then,” he realised bleakly. _There’s a major emotional aspect to sex for humans, but it’s nothing like the level of what he needs. And, as for the physical aspect… Hell, they don’t even have erogenous zones._ “I’m not—I don’t think I can appreciate one-sided sex if you aren’t enjoying yourself, too.” He made to pull away, but Sherlock tightened his grip and held him still.

“That’s not what I said. _Mutual_ satisfaction in my kind’s form of sex is beyond us at this point, yes, just as _mutual_ satisfaction in humanoid sex is certainly beyond my capabilities. However, while you may not be able to sense my projections, I can sense yours. And, while I may not get the same physical enjoyment from the act as you do, you can still take pleasure from it.”

“Compromise,” John summarised. _I’ll give you mental stimulation, and you’ll give me physical stimulation._ He rolled the idea around in his mind, and even if it didn’t quite sit right with him that he wouldn’t be able to reciprocate in the way he was familiar with, he comforted himself with the knowledge that he’d still be giving Sherlock _something._ “Alright.” He swallowed down his doubts and braced himself over Sherlock, resting their foreheads together. “Want to give it a try?”

Sherlock smiled up at him, tendrils caressing John’s back and sides, and nodded. “Tell me what you want.”

_You._ “Anything. Start with clothes.” While Sherlock pulled John’s jumper over his head, John closed his eyes and tried to open his mind to Sherlock, unsure of how to even go about it.

He startled slightly at the alien touch against his brow, and Sherlock smoothed away the wrinkle that had formed. “Relax, John,” he soothed. “You’re doing fine.” Another wave of warmth bloomed in John’s chest, and he relaxed into the touch as Sherlock peeled off his shirt. There was a pause as Sherlock took in the scar on John’s shoulder, and the warmth in his chest chilled with the alien’s sadness.

“It doesn’t hurt,” John assured him. Sherlock craned his head around to press a kiss to the injury before returning to the task at hand.

When both of them were bare-chested (Sherlock had adjusted his colouring to remove the illusion of his own clothes as well), John dropped his weight onto Sherlock and kissed a line up the long neck, careful to keep his mouth closed. “Is it working?” he breathed against Sherlock’s lips, revelling in the way the warmth in his chest mixed with the low burn of arousal in his midsection.

Sherlock hummed in response and twitched his hips against John’s, elongated fingers weaving across John’s back. “You feel beautiful,” he murmured over John’s hitched gasp. Unable to help himself, John surged forward and captured Sherlock’s mouth with his own.

* * *

Unfortunately, as it turned out, suddenly gagging at the rise of bile in one’s throat was not particularly conducive to a successful sexual encounter. “Sorry,” John muttered once he’d scraped the taste of Sherlock’s skin from his tongue. He could feel himself flushing with mortification, and he hunched over, curling in on himself. Beside him, Sherlock sighed and draped a flattened arm over him in a makeshift blanket. “I forgot about the taste issue for a second.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock reassured him, dropping a kiss into the hair just over John’s ear. “There’s always something, isn’t there?”

John sucked in a fortifying breath and straightened. “Should we try again?” he asked, pushing his embarrassment aside for the moment. “I’ll just have to remember to not kiss you.”

Sherlock tilted his head and studied him for a moment before nodding. “Alright,” he agreed, brushing a hand through the fringe above John’s eyes.

Unfortunately, that didn’t work too well, either. All the groping in the world couldn’t get John into the act like a few good snogs, and a few minutes later Sherlock huffed against John’s ear and pulled away. “This isn’t working,” he said.

“No, I—here, I’m _trying,”_ John growled, wrapping a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Just give me a chance to adjust. I can do this.”

Sherlock slipped out of John’s grasp and shook his head. “There’s really nothing appealing in feeling you get more and more frustrated with yourself,” he replied, trailing a soothing tendril through John’s hair. “We knew this might not work.”

John groaned and pulled Sherlock closer. “At least let me help you, then,” he demanded.  _Even if I can’t get off on this, at least you don’t have to leave disappointed._ He closed his eyes and tried to force his mind open for Sherlock, but the alien just huffed a chuckle against his scalp.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Sherlock explained. “If you’re not enjoying yourself, then I’m not enjoying myself. It’s fine, John; don’t you dare blame yourself for this.”

_Can you really say it’s not my fault, though? If I weren’t so attached to kissing, we wouldn’t have a problem._ A stern look and rush of warm comfort from Sherlock were enough to lower John’s hackles, though; he sighed, accepting defeat.  _If I can’t make it work without kissing, we’ll just have a non-sexual relationship. Fine. Other people do it, right?_ His gut clenched at the thought of relying on his own hand for sex for the rest of his life when the one he loved was there and willing, but he rationalised that he’d hadn’t slept with another person since before moving in with Sherlock.  _It’s not like it’s anything new. It’ll be fine. It has to be._

* * *

In the days following the very publicised heist and the world-renowned thief’s ‘reformation,’ Lupin’s open letter to humanity was the top news story in every country , completely overshadowing Sebastian’s accusations over the next week. The resulting increase in Pro-Alien support was heartening, but even as the Anti-Aliens lost their influence, they hardened in their resolve. “The political field is getting more and more polarised,” Mycroft murmured one evening, skimming through the ridiculously complex web of predictions he and Mrs. Hudson had created, “and while the balance is tipping in our favour, our opponents will be driven to escalate the issue.” He traced a trail through the possible outcomes. “Here’s what we need to do.”

Between the call for transparency and the improved public perspective on the aliens, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson convinced Anthea to return everyone to their homes with the same security measures as before. As much as he’d felt trapped in Baker Street before the shooting that had led them to France, John had to admit that it felt good to be back in familiar territory. He stopped just inside the door to their flat with a suitcase in each hand, listening to Mrs. Hudson bustle around downstairs as she unpacked, and he stared around at the familiar décor. _I suppose, as far as temporary prisons go, this is comfortable enough._

“John?” Sherlock asked, coming up the stairs behind him with the remainder of John’s luggage in his arms. “Something wrong?”

“No,” John replied, moving on to his room and beginning the unpacking process. “I was just saying hello to our home again. We haven’t seen it in a while, after all.” At the telling silence behind him, John grinned. “Figure of speech, Sherlock. I know the flat’s not sentient.”

“That’s good,” Sherlock huffed, following him. “I was beginning to worry that the change in our relationship had triggered some unforeseen side effects.” He extended his neck so that his face appeared directly in front of John, making him jump, and pressed a kiss to John’s lips when he recovered. “Welcome home,” Sherlock whispered, placing the suitcases on the floor and withdrawing.

_It wouldn’t be home without you._ John smiled and brushed his fingertips across his mouth. “Hey, Sherlock.”

The alien peeked back around the doorframe, eyebrow raised. “Hm?”

“I love you.” Even after several days, the words still sent his heart pounding with affection.

Sherlock smiled and extended a tendril, caressing John’s wrist without actually taking hold of it. “I love you, too. I’m glad to be back home with you.”

John grinned and glanced at the close walls and the nearly blacked-out windows. “Just wait,” he promised darkly. “Soon, the protestors will come back, and we’ll be clawing at the edges, mad with cabin fever all over again.”

To John’s bemusement, Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and hummed, “We’ll see.”

* * *

In accordance with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson’s plans, Anthea announced the change of location to the public the next morning. The crowd of protesters was back, fully formed, by early afternoon. John tuned into a sitcom  on the telly as a precaution to the cheers and shouts he’d become accustomed to before France, shaking his head at Sherlock. “And, so it begins,” he muttered, falling back onto the sofa.

“ _Nanu Nanu,”_ the television interjected, and John quirked an eyebrow at it before turning his attention to Sherlock.

“Ah, but there is one crucial difference between then and now,” Sherlock said, reforming from his alien sprawl over half the room.

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Sherlock rounded the table and collapsed on the couch, immediately twisting and curling around John. “Now, we don’t have to dance around your attraction to me. That alone makes this infinitely more pleasant.”

John laughed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock in return, lightly kneading the illusory shirt. “You may have a point.” He ran a hand up Sherlock’s back, and the alien shifted closer until he was draped over John’s lap. _Most newly minted couples would give a good deal to be trapped in a flat with their lover for days on end and no immediate responsibilities._

“Of course I have a point,” Sherlock grumbled, nuzzling John’s chest. “It was bloody unbearable, having to back off every fifteen minutes so you could disappear for a while and cool down. I don’t know how I stood it.” He flashed a grin, showing he was teasing – mostly – and devolved into his natural form.

“Right. How could I have forgotten the utter agony I put you through? You must be the bravest soul on the planet to have survived my horrid behaviour. I don’t deserve you.” Dropping the joking tone, John pressed his closed lips to Sherlock’s skin and added, quietly, “I really don’t.”

Sherlock formed an arm and a head and reached up to kiss John’s cheeks, eyelids and forehead before moving back to his mouth. “Nor I you,” he said, tracing the shell of John’s ear. “But, seeing how we’re both giving ourselves to our clearly undeserving partners” – he pressed another kiss to the tip of John’s nose – “why don’t we indulge?”

“God, I love you,” John breathed, clutching Sherlock close. _I don’t know how I was so lucky as to meet you – twice – but I’m so thankful that I did._

* * *

Against all expectations, the mob outside remained shockingly tame for the remainder of that day and the day after. John found that when he turned off the sound of the telly, the natural buffer of the walls was enough to mute all but a low murmur from outside. On her next visit, Anthea explained that, as far as they could tell, the crowd was composed entirely of Pro-Aliens, and that the lack of opposition had allowed it to settle into something closer to a fan club rally than a protest.

“Which brings me to my next point,” she added, nodding at Mycroft, where he sat beside Sherlock. “Based on the more positive reputation you’ve gained and the success in France, I’m lifting your house arrest. However,” she continued, overriding their collective jubilation, “you will follow the same protocol as in France; we still have to think of public safety, and your mere presence can be enough to start a riot. Sherlock, Mycroft: Pick your secondary – and tertiary, in case of emergency – forms. John, I’ll get you a few basic disguises.”

_Hardly a sacrifice, all things considered,_ John thought, already grinning at the thought of finally going  _outside_ with Sherlock. “Anything else?”

“One last note: For the first week, you need to call myself or Mrs. Hudson for frequent check-ins when you go out.” Anthea shrugged at his sigh. _I knew there would be a catch. Still, it could be much worse._ “If something goes wrong, I want one of us to know where you are and be able to respond as soon as possible. Should everything go well, of course, we’ll leave you to your own devices – more or less – after the first week.”

She continued on to offer them protective transportation past the crowds outside their respective homes, which everyone agreed was a good idea. John levelled a curious look at Mycroft, not knowing how extensive his own problems with mobs had been , but decided to let it go with a resolution to spend some time reconnecting with his adoptive brother.  _I really need to spend more time with him, especially now that he’s forgiven me. We still haven’t talked about things since Sherlock forced us to, and I doubt he’s really made his peace with what happened._

Anthea and Mycroft left soon after, and John caught Sherlock staring longingly after them as they drove away. “Mrs. Hudson,” John called, eyes still on Sherlock, “how soon can we go out?”

The wide grin on Sherlock’s face as they stepped out of the vehicle into the open air was worth the hour-long wait as Mrs. Hudson arranged for a car, helped John with a disguise and took detailed notes on the characteristics of Sherlock’s two forms—his emergency form was female “to throw off anyone looking for us,” he explained.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Sherlock said, eyes closing as his skin subtly darkened under the bright sun. Around them the heartbeat of London pulsed and swelled in the pedestrians and traffic and businesses, all moving to the rhythm of the city. 

“A perfect day to be back home,” John agreed. _I missed this._ He smiled at Sherlock and tugged at the sleeve of Sherlock’s jacket. It was one of John’s, as Sherlock’s own “clothing” was too distinctive, and John suspected he was a little too happy about the fact that Sherlock was wearing his clothes. “Come on; we’ve got another ten minutes before our first check-in. Let’s see if we can make it to the park by then.”

* * *

They managed to spend most of the day in London, stopping every twenty minutes to call Mrs. Hudson, and John even fell asleep for a while against Sherlock’s side in the park they visited. He opened his eyes half an hour later, yawning, and snapped into alertness when he realised where they were. The relief he felt upon seeing just Sherlock—albeit with ginger hair, light blue eyes and a much shorter stature —and no curious fans or protestors more than made up for his irritation at Sherlock for letting him waste so much of their time out.

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson called them back in and sent a car to escort them through the crowd in the street. John took the opportunity to lace his fingers with Sherlock’s and peck him on the cheek before they met with the driver in the busy streets of London. “This has been great,” he said, grinning. “I’m glad we could get out for a while, even if it was just to walk around and explore a bit.”

Sherlock hummed and leaned against John’s side as they walked to the pick-up point. “We’ll have to do it again – soon,” he agreed.

The drive home was eventful only for the few seconds in which John got tangled in Sherlock’s extending limbs as they both divested themselves of their disguises. However, they’d barely stepped out of the car when the crowd exploded into a roaring cheer that chased them into the front hall. “And, thus begins the media frenzy,” John sighed, shaking his head.  _They’ll be insatiable, now that they know we’re leaving the flat occasionally. At least the disguises should be enough to throw them off._ “Mrs. Hudson, we’re back!”

“Yes, I know!” she called from her flat. “I’ll be out in a tick, luvs.”

They moved toward the stairs, but to John’s surprise, the noise outside culminated in several pounding knocks on their front door. “What on earth?” he muttered, turning to stare at the door. _The guards should have stopped anyone before they got to the stoop…._

A familiar voice rang out over the sounds of the crowd. _“John, Sherlock! Let me in; it’s Lestrade!”_

John exchanged a startled glance with Sherlock – well, Sherlock stared ahead with a blank expression, but the idea was the same – and moved closer to the door. “Gabe?” he called through the reinforced barrier. “What are you doing here?”

“ _Your phone numbers don’t work anymore, and I just got off work.”_ His voice became muffled, as if he were speaking to someone else. _“Look, I’m a Scotland Yard Inspector and a friend, alright? Hang on.”_

Sherlock, back in his usual form, reached past him and opened the door, and Gabe practically tumbled into the hall. “Bloody hell,” he grumbled, righting himself. “It’s a nightmare out there.” As the door shut behind him, he glared at the two of them. “Where the  _hell_ have you two been? Sally, Alan and I have been trying to get a hold of you for ages!”

Before John could reply, Mrs. Hudson called, “Boys? Who’s out there?” She peeked down the hall, wiping her hands on a towel. “Oh, Detective Inspector. I hope you’re not trying to lure Sherlock with a case; he’s still on probation, as you should well know.”

Gabe blinked at her, knocked off-track by the interruption. “What? No, of course not, Mrs. Hudson. I just came to talk.” He refocused on John and Sherlock, apparently remembering his irritation. “Mind if I come up?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, glancing at John before leading the way upstairs. Mrs. Hudson shook her head at them and turned back to her flat as John and Gabe trekked up the staircase. “We changed our mobile numbers,” Sherlock explained as they climbed. “Someone found our old numbers and released them to the public several weeks ago, and our inboxes were flooded within hours.”

“Unfortunately, with everything being as hectic as it’s been lately, we forgot to call you and give you our new numbers,” John added, grimacing. _I’ll have to go through my contacts list later and update everyone else I’ve forgotten—oh, god._ He stumbled with panic and lurched for his phone, barely making it through the door to their flat without falling. _Harry. God, she must be frantic by now._

But, when he dialled her number and held the mobile to his ear, he was met with her answering machine.  _Shit._ Ignoring Sherlock and Gabe’s increasingly concerned looks, he said, “Listen, Harry, it’s John. I need you to call me as soon as you get a chance, okay? I’m really sorry I haven’t been in touch, but everything’s been seven levels of crazy ever since…well. Just call me when you get this, okay?” He left her his new number and disconnected, pressing the phone to his forehead and closing his eyes.  _I can’t believe I forgot about Harry. What kind of brother am I?_

“John?” Sherlock asked, tentatively running a hand over John’s sleeve and noticeably avoiding direct contact, presumably to give John privacy if he wanted it.

Somehow, the fact that Sherlock had been the one to speak and offer comfort while Gabe sat silently was too significant for John to comprehend.  _We’_ _ve_ _been isolating ourselves,_ he realised, bringing a hand up to rest on Sherlock’s.  _It never even occurred to me to call Gabe or Sally or Alan or even my own_ sister,  _for god’s sake—I automatically defaulted to Afghanistan, when I relied on Sherrinford and Sherrinford alone._

Behind him, Sherlock stilled as he read the maelstrom of John’s emotional state through their touch. He repeated John’s name, voice a touch less certain.

“I’m sorry, Gabe,” John said, managing to keep his tone even. He turned and offered a weak grin, the best he could do under the circumstances. “I just realised that I haven’t talked to my sister since everything started; she’s probably worried about me.” He stepped past Sherlock and headed for the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Love some, thanks.” Gabe examined at him as he passed, obviously looking for something in John’s stance or expression. “We’ve been worried sick about you, too, you know—both of you. It was bad enough when you disappeared to that facility without telling anyone; this time, at least we were fairly certain that you were safe in your home. But, the next thing we hear is that bastard on the telly – Wilkes, wasn’t it? – and then there was the shooting right outside the flat and suddenly you’re flying out to _France_ to play a game of cat-and-mouse with a thief!” When John peered out from the kitchen, Gabe was scowling at Sherlock. “All that, and not a single peep from either of you to let us know you were alright.”

_Well. I feel like a complete heel, now. Harry’s going to murder me._ John winced and mouthed  _‘Sorry’_ to Gabe, who nodded tightly and flashed him a small smile. Sherlock, on the other hand, was staring at Gabe with a blank expression, and John tilted his head.  _What’s got him so shocked?_

“My deepest apologies,” Sherlock said after a pause. He still looked slightly bewildered. “It was not my intention to cause you distress.”

“Yeah.” Gabe shook his head and clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, suddenly grinning up at him. “Keep in mind that you’re not alone anymore, mate; for better or for worse, you’ve got people who care about you and worry when you don’t keep in touch.”

John winced away and hunched his shoulders. The reprimand may have been meant for Sherlock’s ears, but it cut John just as deeply. He clattered around in the kitchen for a while as he made tea for Gabe and himself, absently noting the sounds that signalled Gabe and Sherlock settling in the sitting room.  _It does no good to fret over Harry now,_ he scolded himself.  _I fucked up, yes, but I’ve called her. There’s nothing to be done until she returns the call._ Not really comforted, he gathered the cups of tea and returned to the others, relieved to find the conversation had lightened enough to take his mind off things.

* * *

Gabe stayed for a little over an hour, catching up on all that had happened since he’d last seen them and reassuring himself that they were handling the stress as well as could be expected. “I need to get home,” he said eventually, glancing at his watch, “but if you’re not busy would you two meet with Sally, Alan and I for dinner next week?” He smiled, traces of his previous worry shadowing the creases in his cheeks. “They’ve been concerned for you, too.”

“We’ll check with Mrs. Hudson,” John said, glancing at Sherlock for confirmation, “but I think we can do that. Where can we go to eat, though?” _Sherlock may be able to change his skin as a disguise, but I can’t get away with wearing a scarf, hat and sunglasses through dinner. With our luck, someone will recognise me, and that could end in disaster. We might just eat in, I suppose._

“Angelo’s?” Sherlock suggested. At John’s groan, he elaborated, “Angelo isn’t the type to discriminate, even on species, and he’s not stupid enough to think that I’ve been spending the last few years trying to take over the human race. Besides, I think we can count him as a friend, too.” The last part was softer, more uncertain, and John blinked in sudden understanding.

_Oh._ That’s _why he was so discomfited earlier; like me, he was surprised by the reminder of our friends and their loyalty._ John sighed, resigning himself to an evening of Angelo’s awkward references to their nonexistent relationship.  _Except…oh, god; it’s not nonexistent anymore, is it? Angelo’s going to make some comment about us being a couple, possibly with an added nudge about Sherlock being an alien, and I’m going to spend the rest of the evening trying to not turn bright red. This is going to be embarrassing. Still…_ Sherlock counted Angelo as a friend, and they really did need all the allies they could get.  _It’s not like I have any better ideas._ “Angelo’s has incredible pasta,” he offered. “I’d love to go.”

They set a dinner date with Gabe, checking with Mrs. Hudson to make sure she could arrange it, and Gabe waved as he headed back to street level. John flopped back onto the sofa as the front door closed behind Gabe, and several seconds later Sherlock joined him. “I was expecting more of an argument about Angelo’s,” Sherlock confessed, wrapping an arm around John’s shoulders and curling in against his side. “I didn’t think you liked him very much.” He traced random patterns across John’s ribs.

“I didn’t like dealing with his insinuations that we were together,” John corrected, “but I suppose that’s a moot point now. We _are_ together.” _Which brings up another topic._ “Sherlock, should we tell them?”

Sherlock hummed. “Do you think we should?” Probably sensing John’s irritation that he’d turned the question back on him, he added, “I think we can trust them, but I don’t know if this is something we should tell anyone right now. Everything is so volatile that all it would take is a tiny slip for Sebastian’s claims to appear accurate, even if they aren’t. And, there’s always the possibility – however slim – that one of them takes offense to the idea and reveals us to the public.” His hand clenched in John’s jumper, and John rubbed a thumb across Sherlock’s knuckles.

“Gabe wouldn’t do that,” John assured him. “As much as Sally and Alan snarked at you, I don’t think they would, either. But, if you’re not comfortable with it” – _Considering Sebastian’s betrayal, I wouldn’t be surprised –_ “we don’t have to tell them now.”

They sat in silence while Sherlock debated, John steadily brushing Sherlock’s hand. “Let’s wait,” he decided, twisting his hand to capture John’s. “At least until public opinion stabilises; then we can choose who to tell.”

He hesitated. “If it’s okay with you, though, I would like to tell Harry—once I get a chance to really sit down and talk with her. Bring her up to date, you know.”

“Alright,” Sherlock replied. John brought Sherlock’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the palm before lowering it back to his ribs. “We can do that.”

* * *

John was watching the morning news—yet another live broadcast from outside their flat, this time with a group of students who had seen them leave and return the day before and thought they could be helpful to world peace by keeping watch for Anti-Aliens in the crowd—when Sherlock startled him with a “Good morning” in his ear. John nearly inhaled his toast in surprise. “Sorry,” Sherlock murmured.

“It’s fine,” John replied, muting the television. “Morning.” He caught Sherlock’s tendril as it fluttered past and pressed his closed lips to it.

“And to you,” Sherlock returned, leaving the tendril in John’s grasp as he moved the bulk of his form around the room. “Do you have any plans for the day?”

John glanced back at the news segment, where the cameraman had panned back to a shot of their building. “Lay low and keep out of the public eye?” he suggested dryly. “As nice as it is to be able to leave whenever we want, I’d rather not have half the city playing ‘spot the alien’ every time we go out.” He glanced around at the clutter that had accumulated in their sitting room from the lack of attention in past weeks. “For that matter, I might get some cleaning done.”

Sherlock conceded the point and claimed a portion of the kitchen for some experiment—“I’m performing a cytotoxicity assay to determine the effect of sodium hydroxide on human skin while examining the rate of skin damage, John; what’s so hard to understand about that?” “I understand it perfectly, Sherlock; I’m just wondering  _how_ you got the materials for it.”—though he agreed to help with dusting above the bookshelves and in other hard-to-reach places. John shook his head, chuckling lightly at their version of domesticity, and began collecting the trash that had accumulated around the flat.

Nearly an hour later, Sherlock and John—mostly John—had cleared a good third of the floor space when John accidentally kicked something lying half-under Sherlock’s chair. He knelt and pulled it out, eyebrows rising as he recognised Sherlock’s violin case.  _We were going to take it in to be repaired,_ he remembered, _but then Moriarty happened, and we never got the chance._

John glanced in Sherlock’s direction, noting that he seemed absorbed with a stage of his experiment, and released the clasps. He flipped the lid open and carefully lifted the instrument from its case, careful to support the broken neck.  _I still haven’t heard him play, either._ Somehow, that seemed more of a tragedy than the broken violin in his hands, and he spoke up. “Sherlock? Do you still have the number of that violin shop?”

He did, in fact, and they managed to wrangle an appointment for that afternoon.  _I guess we’re going to have to brave the streets of London today after all,_ John thought wryly as they made arrangements with Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

The trip to the violin repair shop was routine: No issues arose during the drive to the repair shop, and the luthiers turned out to be enthusiastic Pro-Aliens who were all too happy to assist Sherlock. In fact, everything went almost impossibly smoothly from the moment they stepped out of the house to the moment their car pulled up again.

That, of course, was when the wrench in the works appeared in the form of Harriet Watson in all her furious glory.  _Why didn’t she just call me so that we could arrange a meeting?_ John wondered, somewhat irritated though he knew he had no right to be.  _She didn’t even return my call from yesterday, and now she’s going to cause a scene._

“Johnny!” she shouted, struggling against the police barrier lining the path to their front door. “John Hamish Watson, don’t you dare ignore me!”

“Oh, Harry,” John sighed, noting the messy strands of her hair and the tell-tale stains on her shirt. _She’s been at the bottle. Again._ _I need to get her inside and away from this crowd and the reporters._

The Pro-Aliens had taken offense to Harry’s vocal antics, and several hurled ridicule and abuse at her while a few others grabbed at her arms to pull her away from John and Sherlock. “Don’t touch me,” Harry ordered, voice climbing in volume and pitch. “Don’t you fucking touch me; he’s my brother!”

“Let her through,” John called, stepping up to the edge of the barrier. He felt light-headed, but his hands were steady as they grasped Harry’s shoulders and righted her from a drunken sway. “Harry, are you alright? Why didn’t you answer my call? Never mind; it’s not important right now. Let’s go inside, okay?” He nodded over his shoulder to where he knew Sherlock would be standing carefully still as he observed the situation. “We’ll take care of you; let’s just get upstairs.”

“I’m not going anywhere with that _monster,_ ” she spat, bloodshot eyes focusing behind him. John blinked, hands sliding down to Harry’s elbows in shock. “He’s my baby brother, he _was_ my brother—you _took my baby brother!”_

_Oh, god. No._ John sucked down a shuddering breath and forced himself to not glance back at Sherlock or around Harry to the murmuring bystanders.  _Not you, Harry. Don’t you do this to me._ “Harry, please; let’s talk about this—”

“I saw the video,” Harry shrilled, arms slipping from John’s grip as she levelled an accusing gesture over his shoulder at the alien behind him. “I didn’t want to believe it, but it makes so much fucking _sense._ Johnny’s always been close to me—”

“No, I haven’t,” John breathed, but Harry ignored him.

“—but after he came back from _fucking Afghanistan_ he would barely speak to me. He hasn’t so much as called me in months! It was _you,_ wasn’t it? You took him. You took him, just like Flahave said you did—just like Sebastian said you did! You took him, and you _destroyed_ him. _You killed my baby brother, you monster!_ ”

“Harry, _stop!”_ John shouted, firming his stance. “Just stop! Calm down, breathe and let me explain. I made a mistake.”

She laughed, high pitched and wrong. “Oh, I’ll say! How did you let yourself get yourself wrapped up in this, Johnny? Why would you give them the opportunity to turn you? And,  _you._ ” She snarled over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Do you regret it now, knowing that he actually has people who care about him, who will fight for him? Because I  _will_ fight for him.” Her lip trembled. “I  _will._ Oh, Johnny, I’ll fight for you. I may not have been there for you when you really needed me, but I’ll take care of you and get you back, I swear.”

“Harriet,” Sherlock said from John’s shoulder, making him jump. “You’re intoxicated, and you’ve _been_ intoxicated for nearly a week straight, judging by the stains on your clothes. Come inside with us and sober up enough that you can have an intelligent conversation or go home, but either way your drunken accusations are not welcome here.”

“ _Sherlock,”_ John hissed over the uproar of cheers that came from the Pro-Aliens in the crowd at Sherlock’s statement. “She’s my _sister;_ you can’t talk to her like that!”

“You fucking monster _I’ll kill you for this!”_ Harry shouted, forcing her way past the barrier and landing a blow on Sherlock. The nearest officer got to her before John could, dragging her away from the stoic alien and away from them through the crowd.

“Harry!” John shouted, waving for the officer to stop and bring her back, but the Pro-Alien crowd’s jeering and applause drowned him out. They were hissing and shouting at Harry, calling her a ‘stupid bitch!’ and a ‘fucking _idiot,_ you’ll get what you deserve!’, and then she was gone, out of John’s sight.

“John.” Sherlock placed a hand on John’s shoulder, pulling him back from the edge of the crowd. “We need to get inside.”

“ _Don’t touch me,”_ John snarled, whirling around and glaring at Sherlock. The alien paled but stood his ground, and John stormed past him and up to the front door, held open by Mrs. Hudson with her face lined with concern. The door slammed closed on the roar of the Pro-Aliens, and John spun to lay into Sherlock. “How dare you; Harry is my _sister_ and you had no right to say those things to her!” At his vehemence, Mrs. Hudson retreated to a safer distance, though she didn’t leave completely.

“She was hurting you!” Sherlock retorted, rippling in frustration. “She was nowhere near lucid; just look at how clearly drunk she was! It’ll do her good to sober up, and then we can have a reasonable discussion about…us.”

“Well, that’s not very likely, now, is it? Not now that you’ve insulted her and probably got her arrested. Christ, Sherlock, she clearly thought you were the bad guy even before arriving; I think you’ve pretty well cemented yourself in that role with your little display out there!” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John shook his head and backed away. “No. Just…don’t talk to me for a while. I need to calm down, and then I’ll call Harry and we’ll figure this out. Okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock offered when John turned to walk upstairs. “I was only trying to help.”

John nodded and continued up the steps.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson must have taken Sherlock into her rooms because he didn’t return to their flat for several hours, during which John had called Harry nine times and received no responses. There was a worryingly high probability that she had actually been taken in by the police, but as time passed John found it less and less likely that she was still in custody and unable to use her phone. He found his thoughts returning to her expressions during the confrontation, and his heart sank.

_My sister,_ he thought blankly as he stared at the silent mobile. Sherlock came up the stairs and peeked his head through the door, and John waved him over. Immediately, Sherlock entangled him within a web of limbs, infusing him with a pained comfort that did nothing to dull the pain of John’s realisations about Harry.  _My sister doesn’t believe me. My sister is an Anti-Alien. My sister hates my best friend—boyfriend? Doesn’t matter; I’m dead to her._

‘ _You killed my baby brother, you monster!’_ It rang in his head, echoing and echoing until it was the only thing he could hear or see. Even over the warm comfort blooming in his chest; even over the concerned baritone murmuring in his ear; even over the securing pressure of limbs against his arms, his legs, his waist: _‘You killed my baby brother!’_

_I thought I knew the pain of betrayal when Sebastian stabbed us in the back,_ a small, humourless part of John remembered.  _But, betrayal from the only blood relative I have left? So much worse._ He sucked a breath into his suddenly unclenched chest at the flood of warmth from Sherlock, tinged with a sharpness that he guessed was desperation.

“John,” and Sherlock’s voice was distorted, as if his vocal cords weren’t formed correctly. That was probably the case, in fact: John could imagine how the worry had flattened his features and wrecked the details of the vocal cords necessary for a level tone. _“John.”_ Oh, had he not responded?

“’m okay,” John replied, absently noting the way his hands were starting to tremble. “Just hurts, is all.” _It hurts a lot._

“Oh, luv,” Mrs. Hudson crooned, and John startled, having not noticed her entrance. She carded a hand through his hair. “I wish I could tell you it would all be better soon, but sometimes the people you thought you knew… well, they turn out to be something completely different.”

“But she’s my _sister,_ ” John argued. _I remember playing with her as children, before Mum got sick; I could trust her for almost anything, then. She was my best friend, and when Mum passed away, I could count on her when Dad went to the drink. We may not be close anymore, and maybe now she’s the one on the drink, but doesn’t our past count for anything? I should have called her as soon as everything started going insane—I really am a horrible brother for forgetting her, aren’t I?—but isn’t family supposed to love one another no matter what?_ He felt a knot of grief rise in his chest, and he forced it back down with the help of another wave of Sherlock’s comfort.

“Whatever happens,” Sherlock murmured against his ear, “I want you to remember this: She’s trying to protect you, and she thinks she’s failed you. No matter how much she may go astray, she wants to do right by you.” His grip tightened around John’s arms, and he pressed a quick kiss to John’s shoulder. “She does love you, John.”

Throat clenched, John held fast to the tendrils winding through his fingers. _Maybe so, but she doesn’t think I’m me, anymore—and that’s why it hurts._

John continued calling Harry over the next few hours, hoping that there was still a chance that they could instil reason in her. The one time she answered, though, John barely managed to get a word in edgewise around her hysterical screams. “Don’t you try to fuck with me; I don’t want to hear you use his voice like that,” she screeched into the phone, and John let his eyes fall closed. “What is this? You realised that you’d forgotten to appease the sister in your master fucking plan, and now you’re trying to cover it up?  _Fuck you,_ you goddamned alien.” She hiccupped, and her voice abruptly lost its fury, dropping into sorrow. “Fuck you. I just want my brother back.”

“Harry,” John began, but she’d already hung up. She didn’t answer again.

The next time he saw her was on the news: She was sitting beside Sebastian Wilkes at a press conference, handkerchief pressed to her puffy, bloodshot eyes as she attested to John’s changed nature and Sherlock’s involvement in it.

* * *

Their flat was quiet for several days as John recovered from the emotional blow. Sherlock finished cleaning the sitting room and collected his violin from the shop—they’d had to replace the neck entirely, much to his disappointment—but didn’t play in deference to the oppressive atmosphere.

Still, there were bright points: Within thirty-six hours, a sub-community of Pro-Aliens had convinced the guards to let them give John a giant bag of well-wishing, supportive letters, complete with fanmail from Pro-Aliens worldwide and vitriolic denunciations of Harry’s actions. John threw out the latter, but the rest was enough to bring a shaky grin to his face. _What is my life, really? I’m just a regular guy; how in the world did I come to have a fanclub?_

Mrs. Hudson was comforting in her doting way, and when Mycroft came to reconnect with Sherlock, he spent nearly as much time wrapped around John as he did with Sherlock. The two aliens enveloped John in a twining design of grey and pink and dragged him down to the couch in a move reminiscent of the aftermath of the pool. Afterward, when John was feeling soothed, if not exactly happy, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson bent over their plan of strategies and grimly eliminated several of their more optimistic options.

The guilt John felt at that realisation was somewhat mitigated by Anthea’s support, however: she arrived to escort Mycroft back to the office and offered John a smile and the promise that they would “make it work out, in the end” on her way out. Between the three of them, John felt the sharp pain in his chest whenever he thought about Harry fade to a dull ache.

And, of course, there was Sherlock. That first night, John had twitched awake from a hazy nightmare to Sherlock hovering over him in concern. “You were frightened and unhappy,” he’d explained, “and you kept mumbling your sister’s name.”

“Just a nightmare,” John had replied, and he’d curled up in the weave of Sherlock’s tentacles until he’d drifted back to sleep in the early hours of the morning. And, well. Even in his darkest moods, Sherlock could draw a smile and a moment of bliss whenever he pressed a kiss to John’s cheek and told him he loved him.

Obviously, the overwhelming support from his friends played a major role in keeping him sane, and it surely paved the way for his return to normal, but the final push came in the unexpected consequences of Anthea’s work in France. After the last of the Black Lotus collapsed, just as Adler’s organisation had fallen before, John got a phone call that gave him something to celebrate.

* * *

“Turn on the news, Channel Four. Now.”

John blinked, already reaching for the remote. “Mycroft, what—?” Behind him, Sherlock reformed and leaned over his shoulder.

“Just trust me; you need to see this.”

“Alright, I’m almost there. Hang on.” The channel clicked over, and John fumbled his mobile in surprise. _Soo Lin? But, she went to ground after the museum!_ Impossible as it was, though, it was true: Soo Lin Yao was seated in the news studio with the boy from the museum and a reporter, and the digital banner behind them read, _Soo Lin Yao and Andy Galbraith, Pro-Alien Acquaintances of Sherlock Holmes._ “She’s back? But, isn’t it dangerous?”

“The Black Lotus is gone,” Mycroft explained. “We took out the last of its operatives almost a week ago; everyone that could be arrested has been. It was the major story on the news yesterday.”

“I haven’t been watching the news these last few days,” John muttered in reply, mood darkening slightly as he remembered the reason why. “My sister, you know.”

On screen, Soo Lin explained her history with the crime ring and outlined her experiences since escaping. “I had to give up everything,” she said, “and I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to come back. But, with the Black Lotus gone, it’s safe for me again. I can return to the life I wanted—the life I built for myself.” At her side, Andy’s mouth curled into an even brighter smile, if such a thing was possible: The man couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Soo Lin for even a minute.

“He’s proposed,” Sherlock said abruptly. At John’s questioning look, he extended a hand across the room to point at their hands on the screen. “She’s wearing an engagement ring, and look at the way they’re oriented. Galbraith is more obvious with his affection, but Soo Lin has her body angled towards him despite speaking to the reporter across from them both.”

“They’re going to get married,” John summarised blankly. He found himself thinking back to that night in the front room, where Andy had said his goodbyes to Soo Lin and let her walk out of his life, and he found to his surprise that the memory had lost its bittersweet tone. _I’m not jealous of them anymore; I have my love, now._ Instead, the memory was tinged with pity and awe, and he felt that awe rise within him once more. “They’re—they’re going to get married!”

“I imagine that Mr. Galbraith was reluctant to allow Miss Yao from his side after all they’ve been through,” Mycroft commented wryly, and John chuckled at the obvious similarity to him and Sherlock. The alien slid over the back of the sofa and curled into John’s side as the interviewer asked Soo Lin about her experience with Sherlock.

“As I’ve said, I was out of the country for the majority of the last year, and I dealt with the Holmes brothers before they were revealed as aliens. That said, they and Dr. Watson gave me assistance during my struggle to escape the Black Lotus’s reach, and the three of them performed with honour and integrity in even the most unusual circumstances. Were it not for their help, I would be dead.” She hesitated a moment before turning to face the camera. “If you are watching, I want you to know that I owe you my life. Thank you.”

In the short silence that followed, John swallowed back the lump in his throat and clutched Sherlock’s hand in his own.

“That’s quite an impressive story,” the reporter said. “Mr. Galbraith, what is your opinion on the aliens and their companion?”

Andy looked up, eyes comically wide, and stuttered, “Oh! Well, I mean…They saved our lives, of course, so obviously I’m grateful for that. And, they even gave us shelter in their own home. Believe me, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have had the courage to do the same in their places; Soo Lin had a multi-national criminal organisation after her! But, they took us in and kept us safe. Let’s be honest: I’d be collateral damage by now if they hadn’t.”

“A question for both of you, then. How do you feel about the allegations of mental control, especially as pertaining to Dr. John Watson?”

“It’s absolute bollocks,” Andy burst out. He immediately blushed. “I mean, of course they care for each other—that’s obvious to anyone with a pair of working eyes—but Dr. Watson is most definitely his own person. He’s—he’s _real,_ even when you might get the feeling that Mr. Holmes isn’t, and I don’t know if I can phrase it any better than that.”

Soo Lin smiled and placed a hand over Andy’s. “I think he’s trying to say that when you interact with Mr. Holmes, he sometimes slips, and you can tell that there’s something off about him. Dr. Watson, on the other hand, is very human. It’s just…there’s something, you know, that makes us inherently human, and no matter how well the aliens may act, they don’t have it. But Dr. Watson does.”

“Exactly,” Andy agreed. In their living room, John stroked Sherlock’s hand, which had come to rest on his shoulder.

Onscreen, the reporter shifted the topic to Soo Lin’s engagement ring, clearly intending to end the interview with a glimpse into their relationship, and John flipped the telly off. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he said into the phone he still held in his hand.

“You’re welcome, John. We’re here for you.”

As they hung up, Sherlock pulled John closer and wrapped him in an embrace. John was smiling,  _really_ smiling, for the first time since Harry had shown up at their front door, and he felt like maybe his heart was starting to heal.

* * *

Then, the date for their dinner with the Yarders came up, and despite Gabe’s offer to reschedule in respect for the emotional blow John had been dealt, John refused and reaffirmed their plans. Upon arriving at Angelo’s, there was a tense moment where Sherlock was forced to drop his ginger-haired disguise in exchange for his dark curls and distinctive facial structure for crucial seconds so that Angelo could recognise them. John spent it half-afraid that one of the other patrons would notice the alien in their midst or that Angelo would be less understanding than Sherlock hoped.  _Either would end in chaos and disaster,_ he thought _. All it takes is one Anti-Alien – or, with the recent support, even a fanatical Pro-Alien – and this place will turn into a madhouse._

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Angelo greeted as he approached with a genuine smile. _And, he hasn’t even realised it’s us, yet._ “How may I serve you?”

John could pinpoint the exact moment when Angelo recognized Sherlock’s face: his smile froze, dropped and hesitantly returned in the space of a few seconds. Sherlock leaned against John’s side to disguise the tendril that slipped into his grip, and John felt the telltale wave of warmth as Sherlock tried to sooth him.  _Well, Angelo hasn’t picked up his phone to call the tabloids, yet; that’s a good sign,_ John thought, consciously relaxing his stance.

Still, it wasn’t until Angelo ushered them back to a private booth that John’s shoulders dropped from their tensed hunch. “I have to admit I wasn’t expecting to see you two so soon,” Angelo murmured, leaning in conspiratorially, “what with all that madness in the papers. Bah! Human or not, you’re always welcome in my restaurant.” He grinned and placed their menus on the table. “Once a friend, always a friend, I say.”

“Thank you, Angelo,” Sherlock replied, smiling with a stranger’s face now that he’d once again affected his anonymous public persona. “It means a lot to us. And, speaking of friends, we’re planning to meet a few here tonight.” He gave Angelo the names and descriptions for Sally, Alan and Gabe, and Angelo promised to bring them back when they arrived.

As Angelo bustled away, John allowed himself to rest against Sherlock’s side, watching the alien’s features sharpen in relief. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?” _I haven’t been fair to him in only remembering his assumptions about our relationship._

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “He is.” He nudged the menu at John’s elbow and leaned into his shoulder. “They should be here in the next twenty minutes; do you want to get an appetizer?”

John ended up pushing the bruschetta he ordered around on his plate, too anxious to actually eat, until the front door, barely visible from their seats, swung open to admit a familiar trio.  _There’s no reason to panic,_ he thought viciously, loosening his clenched grip around the fork.  _They’re our friends; we can trust them._

Still, he couldn’t help but thinking that this would be the first time they’d have to confront Sherlock’s alien-ness, excluding Lestrade’s experience shortly after the pool incident. No matter how much Sherlock might humanise himself for their comfort during the dinner, he’d be doing it with a different face. It was bound to discombobulate the officers, but there wasn’t a way around it, really; he just couldn’t afford to walk around with his ‘own’ skin.

After a brief discussion at the door—John noticed Lestrade’s twitch when he recognised Angelo as the burglar from several years before—Angelo led the officers to their booth. “I’ll be back in a few minutes for your orders,” he promised, laying a set of menus on the table before he left.

Sally was the first to speak after the silence stretched: “Evening, John. And, Mr. Holmes, I presume?”

Sherlock sighed, fingers twitching against the table. “And here I’d hoped we were on a first-name basis by now, Sally.”

“Well pardon me for not wanting to jump to conclusions,” Sally snapped. She immediately looked embarrassed for her outburst but didn’t back down. “You call us out on it enough at crime scenes, after all.”

“If you could just be bothered to examine the evidence, I wouldn’t have to,” Sherlock shot back, lips twitching up into a grin. Sally returned it, and, just like that, the atmosphere relaxed into easy banter while they waited for Angelo to return. “But, I suppose the streets haven’t been overrun by criminals, yet, so you must be doing something right.”

“Actually,” Gabe cut in, “there’s been a drastic fall in hate crime, lately. I’ve half a mind to accuse you of interfering somehow, but it wasn’t this low before you started working with us, either.” He shrugged. “Personally, I’m starting to wonder if your mere presence is a deterrent.”

“Pardon?” John asked, finally putting his fork onto the table. “If the crimes are only now starting to drop away, how could it be Sherlock? He’s been here for years.”

“Well, yes, but you’re the only one who knew he was an alien prior to a few weeks ago.” He shrugged. “I suppose that the differences in religion or romantic preference don’t seem quite as important when there are aliens of a completely different _species_ in your city.”

“Especially when those aliens have a reputation for crime-fighting,” Alan quipped. “You might prefer the violent crimes to things like racial abuse, but they don’t know that.”

“Speaking of aliens,” Sally added, looking somewhat hesitant, “what exactly does that … mean? All we’ve seen are those interviews on the telly; obviously, you can change your form, and that scientist gave a lot of information on your biology—more or less—but what _are_ you, really?”

Sherlock’s answer was delayed, for Angelo took that moment to reappear with their orders. “And, feel free to stay as long as you like,” he added, placing the last plate in front of Gabe. “I don’t have any plans this evening, so I can wait to close up behind you.”

“Thank you, Angelo,” Sherlock smiled over his empty placemat. “We appreciate it.”

“It’s nothing, Sherlock; why, if you and John had decided to stay later on your first date, I’d have been happy—are you alright?”

“Fine,” John gasped, coughing the water he’d inhaled into a napkin and desperately trying to not blush. “Wrong pipe.” _Should have known we wouldn’t make it through the evening without him commenting on our relationship._ He fought down his embarrassment and glared at Alan, who was snickering at him.

“Well, if there’s anything else I can get for you, don’t hesitate to ask!” Finally, Angelo retreated to the kitchens, and John took a few breaths to get his spasming diaphragm under control. 

Sherlock shifted to press their thighs together, and John spared him a smile as he caught his breath. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “And, shut up, Alan. It’s not that funny.”

“Sorry,” Alan said, sounding completely unremorseful. “So, Sherlock: Aliens?”

After another moment of comforting touch against John’s side, Sherlock turned his attention back to Sally. “My species doesn’t have a name; we don’t have a spoken language. Dr. Claybourne—the scientist from Orkney you saw on the news—explained that we’re primarily empathic and telepathic, if you recall. On top of learning your languages, my brother and I had to learn basic verbalisation when we came to Earth.” He shrugged. “On our planet, we refer to ourselves with a generic impression of our kind. It really is impossible to translate.”

“So, how did you learn to speak, then?” Gabe asked, forking up a bite of pasta. “It seems like verbal speech would be a challenge when you’ve got nothing to base it on.”

“John taught me.”

There was silence. “Er,” Sally said. “When did you two meet, again?”

“He crashed in Afghanistan,” John replied, swallowing his mouthful of lasagne. _Delicious, as always._ “I was the only one nearby, and he wouldn’t let me reveal him to my commander, so I got the dubious honour of becoming his unofficial guide.” He leaned his shoulder into Sherlock’s and continued, “Speech was a bit of an issue, but he figured out that I was trying to talk to him pretty quickly. I’d say he was speaking at a rudimentary level within a week. Once I taught him to read and write the alphabet, he memorised the entire dictionary in less than ten minutes.” John sliced off another bite of lasagne and popped it into his mouth. _Why is this so much better fresh than when Sherlock brings me take-away?_ After he swallowed the pasta, he realised that the table was silent, and he glanced up. “What?” 

There was a moment of awkward awe before the conversation lightened considerably as Alan and Sally’s questions turned first to Sherlock’s amazing language skills and then his generally physiology. Sherlock obliged to several discrete demonstrations of his malleability and the flexibility of his form and colour. The enthusiastic reception seemed to calm Sherlock, and he wrapped a slim tendril around John’s elbow while he continued to gesture and twist his fingers into impossible shapes. They finished their meals, and Angelo returned to bring them desserts as most of his other patrons trickled out the door. Broken only by the periodic check-ins with Mrs. Hudson, the time stretched until John found himself leaning fully into Sherlock’s side with a warm belly and an easy laugh.

Sherlock shifted and pushed that side of his coat back to drape over John’s shoulders, and, secure in the empty restaurant and his trust in their friends, John allowed it.  _I have to admit: their need for physical contact makes a great excuse for this._ “At least it’s relatively easy to support him,” he added into the conversation: “With the exception of the materials for his experiments, we only need to buy food and supplies for one. I don’t know if we’d survive in London on our combined income otherwise.”

Gabe laughed obligingly, and John felt his lips curl up.  _This is nice. I can’t believe I forgot how good it feels to be in the company of friends, beyond Sherlock and Mycroft. And Anthea and Mrs. Hudson, I suppose._ Sherlock blanketed John’s shoulders with a flattened limb, pushing the coat farther back, and John felt the warmth of his love diffusing through the points of contact. He hummed softly in return.

“So, John, I know that the Commissioner has it out for you and Sherlock, but do you have any idea when you’re coming back?”

“ _Alan,”_ Sally hissed, elbowing him.

“You were thinking it, too! We need him back, and you know it.” He turned to glare at Gabe. “You both know it.”

“Why? What’s going on?” John asked.

Sally shot Alan a dirty look and sighed, turning back to John. “The coroner’s office still hasn’t got around to hiring a temporary replacement for you, and Molly’s been…stressed.”

“She threw a clipboard at me,” Alan muttered.

“Wha— _Molly?_ ” John echoed. _“Molly_ threw a clipboard at you? Sweet, quiet, don’t-mind-me-I’ll-be-over-in-the-corner Molly?”

“You see why Alan’s so keen on getting you back,” Gabe confirmed. “But, we understand that you’re in unusual circumstances; it’s not like you’re responsible for the Commissioner’s decisions, is it?”

John’s guilt hunched his back, and he curled farther into Sherlock. “Well, no; but I’m not actually forbidden from returning to work. That’s just Sherlock. I’m officially on leave, but I’m sure I could go back whenever I wanted.” He winced. _But, that would mean abandoning Sherlock. He really got the rotten end of the deal: I can go back to work, and Mycroft can go back to work, but he’s locked out._

Probably sensing the thought through their contact, Sherlock said, “If you want to go back to work, John, I’m sure Anthea could help smooth the way as much as is necessary.”

Still uncomfortable with either keeping Molly stressed and overworked or leaving Sherlock alone and bored for several hours of the day, John shrugged. “I’ll think on it,” he promised.

They were interrupted by the quickly cut-off ring of a cell phone. All eyes turned to Gabe, who scowled at whatever the text said and shook his head as he typed out a reply. “We need to go; someone’s found a dead body. Sorry to skip out on you, but it’s been brilliant.” He glanced up at them, pressing a few more buttons, and pocketed the mobile.

“Where’s the murder?” Sherlock asked, fingers twitching as he reformed his arm and shrugged back into the sleeve of his coat.

Gabe opened his mouth to reply, but Sally cut him off. “We can’t tell you that,” she blurted, wincing at her bluntness. “I mean, you’re not allowed to work cases anymore.”

“Right, of course.” Sherlock smiled, shivering lightly. “I’d forgotten for a moment.” He shook himself and nodded for them to go, cutting off the sympathetic apologies. “It’s fine,” he lied. “Go catch the killer.”

“Keep in touch, alright?” Alan said as he followed Sally and Gabe out the door. “We worry about you two. Hope to see you back at work soon, John—and, uh, sorry to hear about your sister,” he added awkwardly. John grimaced as the reminder soured what remained of the pleasant mood, and Sally whispered something furiously into Alan’s ear as they left the restaurant.

The door swung closed behind them, and Angelo sighed. “Don’t worry, you two,” he soothed, clapping a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Those ridiculous Anti-Aliens can only delude themselves for so long.”

Sherlock turned his false smile to Angelo and nodded as he stood, helping John to his feet. “As you say,” he agreed. “Thank you again, Angelo.”

Angelo walked them to the door and waved them off. “That’s what friends are for. Good night, Sherlock, John.”

* * *

The world got brighter after that, and a few mornings later John woke to the sound of music.  _Is that…Is that the Nutcracker Suite?_ For half a second, he thought Sherlock was playing his violin, but then he recognised the sound of a full orchestra. He shook his head and glanced down to the tendril wrapped around his wrist. “What are you up to, then?” he asked.

In response, Sherlock tugged him up and out of bed. John followed, yawning, and let Sherlock lead him down the stairs to the sitting room, where he froze in the doorway and stared in shock. What he’d assumed was a recording was, in fact, live music, performed by his resident alien. Sherlock was playing his violin, certainly, but he’d devolved the rest of his body and formed resonant chambers around hundreds of strands that vibrated at different frequencies. The effect was the sound of the orchestra in their sitting room. John stood in the doorway and gaped at the shapeless instrument Sherlock had become.

The music swelled to a climax, and Sherlock swept the violin bow across the strings—the only strings in the room that had to be plucked or stroked—in a flourish as the other strands held the last note in a fading decrescendo. John twined his fingers around Sherlock’s tendril as the sound died away. “That was incredible,” he murmured.

Sherlock reformed, violin held to his chin. “I was worried you wouldn’t come down in time,” he admitted. “The next song in the suite relies too heavily on wind instruments, and I haven’t figured out how to mimic a trumpet, yet.”

John followed the gentle tug on his wrist further into the room, shaking his head. “You turned yourself into an orchestra. You actually turned yourself into an orchestra.” He grinned up at Sherlock. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“As I said, the trumpet is currently out of my grasp, but I’ll work that out as soon as possible.” Sherlock pressed a chaste kiss to John’s lips and pushed him back to the sofa, raising the bow to hover over the violin. “Requests?”

“Surprise me.”

“As you wish.” Sherlock set bow to strings and slipped into a gentle, lilting piece that John didn’t recognise. Every few measures, the alien formed strands from upper arm to toe; they strummed in arpeggios as if they were strings on a harp.

John closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. A tendril nudged his hand, and he obligingly threaded his fingers through it. _Beautiful,_ he impressed through the contact.  _You’re beautiful._

Later, Sherlock would admit that he’d been practicing silently during the night while John slept for the last week because it took an immense amount of concentration to maintain the exact forms and frequencies required to mimic each instrument. John would shake his head in amazement and press his closed lips to Sherlock’s, trying to convey the sheer wonder he felt watching him.

Until then, though, John merely sat and listened and felt Sherlock’s love fill his chest until he thought it might burst.

* * *

That night, Anthea broke their normal routine by leaving Mycroft behind when she came to visit. The situation only got stranger when she sent Sherlock away, too. “I’m sorry, but I need to speak with John in private,” she explained, eyes a little wider than usual.

Bemused, John watched her take a steadying breath after Sherlock had disappeared downstairs to Mrs. Hudson. “Are you alright?” he asked. _She doesn’t look as panicked as she did after the fiasco with Adler, but she certainly doesn’t look calm, either._

“I—this is stupid; I don’t know why I’m bothering you with this.” She shook her head and averted her gaze. “Clearly, I’m overreacting and imagining things. Sorry to interrupt your evening.”

John felt concern and a tiny bit of hope bubble up in his chest as he took in the slight twitch of her fingers and the way one hand fluttered near her hair as she turned to leave.  _I think I might know what this is about._ “Wait, Anthea.” He dropped a hand onto her shoulder, pulling it back the moment she turned to him. “I was just making tea when you arrived; come in and have a cup while you explain what’s got you so off-balance.”

“Really, I’m sure it’s nothing,” she denied even as she followed him back to the kitchen; “just a misunderstanding.”

_That’s either very promising or very bad news._ “Something to do with Mycroft?” John pressed, pulling down a second mug.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I—now, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but as I’ve said before, you really are the closest thing we have to an expert on their behaviour, and…” Anthea took a deep breath when John turned to face her. “I think Mycroft just took me on a date.” Before John could respond, she waved a hand between them as if to dismiss the topic and continued, speech speeding up as she attempted to convince herself: “Never mind; obviously I’m reacting poorly to all the stress. God only knows we’ve had enough problems because I jumped to conclusions regarding alien behaviour, and I’m not about to make the same mistake again. I mean, just look at how Sherlock acts with you! I should be pleased that Mycroft is comfortable enough around me to demonstrate his natural personality.”

_Right,_ John thought, watching her work herself up.  _I never thought I’d have to worry about Mycroft being too subtle, what with the advice I gave him. Time to cut this off._ He filled her cup and handed it to her, grabbing his own and leading her to the sitting room. “Anthea, I think you should have a seat and tell me exactly what’s going on.”

She curled up on the couch, mug clutched to her chest, and nodded. “We were at the office for most of the day today—with the information I gathered in France on the Black Lotus, we’ve nearly tracked down the entire organisation—and when we left, he suggested that we stop at a restaurant for dinner on the way back to his house. I assumed that he’d meant we would get take-away because he doesn’t need to eat, but I haven’t had good Thai since finding out they weren’t human, so I agreed.”

“Except, when you got to the restaurant, he wanted to sit while you ate,” John guessed, and Anthea nodded confirmation. He took a sip of tea while he considered. _It’s sweet of him to notice that she hadn’t eaten out in a while and to do something about it, but that alone wouldn’t be enough to send her here in a panic._ “Anything else?”

“Yes. He’s been getting more and more tactile with me since I found out about him, but tonight really took the cake. Before, it was pretty well limited to hand-holding and brushes against my arm or shoulder, but this time he decided he wanted to walk home with his arm around my shoulders.” Anthea blinked and pulled out her phone. “Speaking of which, I need to have the car taken back to the office.”

“You didn’t walk here from Mycroft’s house, did you?” John asked while she typed out and sent a text. _It’s a pretty far way to travel on foot, especially in heels like that._

“No, of course not; I took a cab,” she replied. The brief interlude seemed to have returned her confidence to her, and she took a regal sip from her cuppa as she met John’s eyes. “So, I suppose my question is this: Is that kind of behaviour common for their kind? Or, do I have an amorous alien on my hands?”

_Both._ John took a long swallow of tea to buy himself time.  _How much to give away? Do I tell her that Mycroft is interested and run the risk of alienating her if she’s horrified, or do I imply that it’s platonic and make it harder for Mycroft?_ Then again, maybe there wasn’t much of a choice to be made. He took a steadying breath and explained, “Well, it’s common behaviour for Sherlock, but he only exhibits it toward me.” He shrugged, hoping it looked more nonchalant than it felt. “Then again, our relationship is rather more intimate than his relationship to anyone else, human or not.”  _You’re a smart woman, Anthea; you can get it from there._

“Yes,” Anthea grumbled into her cup, “you’re the alien-on-Earth for them; that’s why I came to you—wait.” She looked up at him, eyes narrowed, and John could practically see the thoughts lining up in her head. “You’re…” her face went professionally blank as her voice trailed off, and John knew that she’d figured it out.

“We are,” he agreed, switching his mug of tea to his steady left hand. _And, to bring this back to Mycroft,_ “Are you?”

“Am I in a relationship with Mycroft Holmes, you mean? No, I can’t say that I am.” She shook her head. “You and Sherlock are romantically involved. _Why_ are you romantically involved?”

“Well, when two people love each other very much…”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. In this political climate, what made you think dating a member from a different species was a good idea? If the Anti-Aliens get hold of this, they’ll hold it against you. For god’s sake, they’re already accusing you of it!”

John took a steadying breath.  _I’ve spent hours considering all the ways it could go wrong, thank you very much. You don’t need to remind me._ “We’ll just have to make sure that they don’t find out, won’t we?”

She stared at him. “This is insane.”

“This is love.” He raised his chin. “I love him, and he loves me. We make it work.”

“It’s illogical and dangerous!”

“There are thousands of poems and sayings that all agree that love is anything but logical. Besides, we’re not here to talk about Sherlock and me. I want you to stop reacting and _think_ before you answer: Could you love Mycroft?”

Anthea opened her mouth immediately to retort. John glared, and she subsided with a distant expression.  _This is the moment that either makes or breaks you,_ he thought.

“I…don’t know. Maybe.”

“Right. Okay.” John exhaled in a _whoosh_ of air and dragged a hand over his face. _It’s better than a ‘no,’ at least._ “Will you give him a chance, at least?”

They stared at each other in silence for several seconds while she deliberated, and finally she nodded. “Okay. I still think this is incredibly stupid and more than a little insane, but I’ll try.” She collapsed back into the cushions, eyes wide. “God. I’m dating an alien. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Go home and talk to him.” John leaned forward and laid a hand on Anthea’s forearm. “Be honest, and don’t be afraid. He loves you; that much I’m sure of.”

* * *

Anthea had dragged herself back under control by the next time she saw them, though John noticed that Mycroft was standing a few inches closer to her than usual. John quirked an eyebrow at him when Anthea’s back was turned, and Mycroft smiled and nodded.  _Good,_ John thought, shoulders relaxing.  _She hasn’t completely written the idea off, at least. That’s something._ He offered a smile in return before giving his full attention to the conversation at hand.

Mrs. Hudson was detailing the next step in her and Mycroft’s plan. “With Harriet compounding the Sebastian problem—sorry, John—it looks like the largest and easiest to tackle reason for distrust is invisibility on the aliens’ part,” she summarised. “We’ve been doing a good job of keeping them out of the public eye, but perhaps we’ve been doing too good a job. The closest thing to contact the public’s had with them recently is the heist in France, and Sherlock and John were well-isolated for most of that. What we need is an interview: In-depth and as candid as possible.”

“Are you comfortable with that, John?” Mycroft interrupted, already clasping hands with his brother. “It would certainly help if you were there and willing to provide a human’s perspective, but Sherlock and I could do it ourselves if you don’t. You shouldn’t feel pressured.”

John tilted his head and considered it. “If nothing else, it’d be nice to convince the world that I’m not actually Sherlock’s mind-slave.” It came out more bitterly than he’d expected. “But, there’s the problem of who gives the interview: If we’re interviewed by Anti-Aliens, they’ll probably twist whatever we say; but if we’re interviewed by Pro-Aliens, then the Anti-Aliens will accuse them of being lenient and  _still_ twist whatever we say.”

“Which is why the interview will be conducted with a few news corporations from both sides of the issue and in several different formats,” Anthea explained. “It’ll be taped and broadcast as video, and written as an in-depth feature. We’d have some of the more professional bloggers in, too, but the vetting would simply be too difficult.”

Eventually, they decided to hold the interview in John and Sherlock’s sitting room with three reporters—one from an Anti-Alien news agency, one Pro-Alien, and one (hopefully) neutral. Anthea would begin immediately tracking down reporters that fit the requirements, and they set a tentative date for the next Friday. “We’ll be back to give you tips and pointers for interviews, but we can’t have it look or sound too pat, too rehearsed” Anthea told John and Sherlock as she prepared to leave. “Don’t worry; I’ll be sitting in the room with you to make sure they stay in line, and Mycroft’s got some experience in this already. It’ll be fine.”

Still, the days passed incredibly quickly, John felt, and then he was serving tea to three reporters in his living room.

* * *

After introductions were made and tea had been served, Janet, the reporter from CNN International, clapped her hands and asked, “Well, shall we begin?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft agreed from John’s side. On his other, Sherlock leaned back into the sofa with his most attentive expression. Anthea watched from the corner with Mrs. Hudson as cameras began rolling. “We’ll do our best to answer all of your questions, so don’t worry about time. Perhaps we could start by telling you a bit about ourselves?

“My brother and I come from a pacifistic planet, and we were sent to guide your planet to peace. Originally, we’d planned to work through your governments and populations with slight nudges and suggestions so as to minimise our influence. If successful, this would have allowed you to essentially make the transition to peace on your own terms, which we hoped would have made it more stable and long-lasting than an artificial imposition.” He smiled wryly. “For obvious reasons, we’ve had to adjust our plans.”

“As for our species,” Sherlock cut in, “we’re from a planet roughly ten-and-a-half light-years from Earth. It’s several times larger than your planet, and our species is the only life form. We don’t eat, drink or sleep; we get our energy from exposure to the sun or stars. As you know, we’re dependent on physical contact and the telepathic and empathic connection from that for our sanity. Also, our bodies are extremely versatile and flexible.”

Richard (from the BBC) twitched his lips at Sherlock’s last description. “And you, Dr. Watson?” he redirected.

John blinked at him and shrugged. “I’m from Earth. I’m just an average guy, I suppose. I met Sherlock when I was in the RAMC in Afghanistan because he crash-landed about a kilometre away from where I’d fallen behind my regiment. Er, should I not have said that?” he asked Anthea. “It’s not classified or anything, is it?”

“It’s not classified,” Anthea told him. “We’re releasing all our information on the aliens per your requests, remember?”

“Right.” He turned back to the reporters. “So, he stayed with me for a few months, and I gave him a crash-course in humanity before he left to find Mycroft in England. I got shot, and about a year after he’d left we ran into each other in London and agreed to rent a flat together. And, here we are.” He waved a hand through the air.

“I’m sorry; did you say that his first experience on Earth was the war in Afghanistan?” Steven, from Sky News, asked incredulously. At the same time, Janet had interjected, “’Ran into each other in London’? That’s an incredible coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

Sherlock chose to address Steven’s question. “That’s correct.” . He outlined the system he and John had worked out during the war, how he’d protected John and how John had taught him reading, speech and basic social skills. The three reporters were just as entranced by Sherlock’s amazing intellectual ability as Alan and Sally had been, though John didn’t doubt they be revisiting all aspects of their story a dozen times over.

“So, allow me to summarise,” Steven said when Sherlock finished relating the details of their first months together. “You protected a soldier in the middle of the battlefield while on your supposed mission of peace. Isn’t that a little contrary to your beliefs?”

“Not at all. John is a doctor; he was in the medical corps. He didn’t kill people—he saved them. Army doctors may be equipped with guns to protect their patients in self-defence, but the only time John ever used it in Afghanistan was against me.”

“Sorry about that, by the way,” John muttered against the startled expressions on the reporters’ faces; he could see there were dozens of questions in response to Sherlock’s casual statement. Sherlock only smiled at him and brushed his hand against John’s.

“What was your perception of war, then, if you’ve had such personal experience with it?” Richard asked after a few moments, trying to maintain some focus in his line of questioning.

“It was frankly terrifying. People die out there every day, and when I was travelling with John I saw it happen time and time again. If our empathy worked with humans, I don’t know if I’d have made it out of there with my sanity intact: There’s so much fear and pain on the battlefield because no one every really forgets, even for a moment, that lives are in danger and lost every day. I couldn’t recognise it as well then as I can now, but everyone’s face was lined with tension.” His hand tightened around John’s. “As I’ve become more and more immersed in your society and culture, I think I’ve started to grasp the motivation to kill a stranger to protect one’s home, but it’s just so _alien_.”

“So what do you do, then, when your loved ones are in danger?” Steven pressed.

Both aliens paled fractionally, but Mycroft replied, “On our planet, it doesn’t happen like that. Our language doesn’t even have the concept of ‘stranger’ because we instantly know and understand each other as soon as we touch. Any disputes are resolved peacefully. We understand that our empathy and telepathy have allowed us to establish a mutual respect of life that prevents situations where we must choose between one life and another, but our hope is that over the course of a few generations humans will be able to foster a similar sense of unity that makes murder as much as an anathema to you as it is to us.”

“‘A few generations’?” Janet parroted. “How long are you planning to stay here? For that matter, how long does your species live?”

“We intend to stay as long as necessary, if you’ll allow us, which will ideally be long enough to bring you to a level of peace where we can open relations between our planets. The average lifespan for our species is…” Sherlock trailed off as he did the conversions. “About two hundred Earth years. I’m forty-two, and Mycroft is forty-five.”

John blinked and felt his stomach clench as the numbers lined up in his head, but Richard was already off on the next question. “What other biological differences are there between us? You look very human, but I understand that you can change forms…?”

“I think John would be best able to answer that,” Mycroft decided, “seeing as he’s got the best understanding of both our species.”

Shaking his head to clear it, John explained, “Well, the most obvious distinction between us is skin texture. They can reform their bodies into a perfect replica of any human” – from the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock shift into a copy of John. They had discussed – argued about – this for hours on end before the interview, but Anthea and Mycroft maintained that openness about their abilities had to be respected. In the end, Sherlock had agreed to change in front of the cameras, and now the reporters collectively froze with wide eyes – “and they can disguise their voices, but their skin maintains a completely different feeling no matter what they look like.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and held it out to the reporters, placing his own beside it. “Look: They’re identical, right? But, if you touch them, Sherlock is obviously not human.”

For several seconds no one moved. Then, Janet extended a tentative hand and brushed over both of theirs. “Oh, wow,” she gasped. “You’re right.” Her brows furrowed. “I don’t even really know how to describe it, actually.”

John quirked a grin while the other two followed Janet’s lead. “Something between oil and plastic is the best I’ve come up with,” he admitted. “Besides the skin texture, there are a few differences in body language. These two have trained themselves to fluency in human body language, but their natural emotional responses are significantly different. It was pretty jarring back in the beginning.” The reporters pulled their hands back, and Sherlock reformed into his usual appearance.

At Richard’s request, Mycroft demonstrated the ripple that signified anger while Sherlock blurred and paled for fear. “It has to do with the level of concentration required to hold a form steady,” Mycroft explained. “Strong emotional reactions disrupt our concentration and cause the shapes and colours to distort. Since coming to Earth, we’ve masked our own body language with yours so as to avoid calling attention to ourselves.”

“And, of course, there’s the ability to create almost any shape,” Sherlock added, twisting his arm around itself into a perfect circle. “We don’t have bones, so sticking to human anatomical limits is really more a matter of preference than necessity.” He straightened his arm and dropped it back to his lap.

Richard asked the next question: “What is your culture like, compared to ours? On Earth, we place emphasis on the sciences, the arts and the spiritual. Is it the same for you?”

Both aliens hesitated. “We  _do_ devote a great deal of time and thought to all of those,” Mycroft said, “but I’m not sure you’d recognise it as such. We don’t have a language as you understand it; as touch-based telepaths and empaths, we communicate entirely through concepts instead of words. We have neither speech nor writing, so it would be impossible for me to show you a book of literature from my planet or an index of our scientific discoveries, though we do have both literature—in a sense—and science. Our spirituality is less something that we think about and more something that we just  _feel_ ; it’s not something I can really describe in human terms.” He sighed. “All of our ‘culture’ is carried through the members of our species in something like an oral tradition: We pass on memories and thoughts from generation to generation, maintaining what is important and transforming what is incomplete. There is no external media on our planet that your anthropologists could examine.”

Sherlock coughed. “That’s not entirely true, Mycroft; we do have some buildings. While they’re mostly there to delineate certain tasks, such as by providing a centre for the peace programme, or for privacy, the architects often inscribe images in the walls and ceilings to suggest their intended purposes. It does brighten up our landscape a bit, what with the rock in all directions. I’m not sure how much insight they would yield for our culture as a whole, though.”

“Wait,” John interjected. “Don’t you have dance, too?” _Sherlock showed me how dancers on your planet create intricate shapes with their bodies; that counts as culture._

Mycroft brightened and explained how the dance remained a central fixture to their society: Every so often, whether for a celebration or just because they needed to, the aliens would organise a huge dance among all the members in a community, and each individual would open itself to its neighbours to form a giant mass that moved together in a single dance. “It was great for building morale and a sense of togetherness.”

“And, currency?” Steven asked. “How did you fund your society and programmes?”

“Well, now. That’s an interesting question, and a large part in why I reconnected with John after coming to England,” Sherlock replied. “We don’t have money on our planet. We do, however, have relatively dense population coverage. News travels _very_ quickly when all that’s needed to communicate it is a second’s touch, so we were always aware of anything that needed to be done across the planet. Instead of worrying about incentives, we’d just get it done. There isn’t a need for currency on our planet because _no one_ could turn down those who need help when you can literally _feel_ the pain of their situation. Our basic biology makes us interconnected on an emotional level. One person’s problem became everyone’s problem, and not a one of us could refuse to assist however we could. It’s not a matter of monetary incentive or any personal gain; it’s a matter of decency. And, as we’ve said, our needs are few: Light and contact.

“On Earth, though, it’s different. Your needs are more immediate, because of your physiology, and you don’t have that deep natural bond to people you may have never seen in your life; so, a problem halfway across the globe isn’t as pressing to you as the happiness of your own social circle. That’s why you have a monetary relationship between the work you perform and the benefits you reap: It’s partially to encourage people to perform the tasks that no one would willingly take on, even though they need to be done. Only a few of us have specialised jobs, my brother and I among them, but the rest of us just perform the tasks that are needed.”

Mycroft slid into the explanation. “Admittedly, there are far more infrastructure-related jobs on your planet than ours, seeing how we don’t—and can’t—farm or raise livestock or construct buildings and roads; we don’t have the level of waste you do, so we don’t need a garbage man to dispose of it. Please understand: We’re not necessarily advocating our exact lifestyle for your planet because we recognise that it just doesn’t function the same way ours does. Frankly, the diversity of your planet is something to be celebrated, not minimised. Monetary incentives have kept your planet working? Fine. Keep them, then; all we ask is that you also take into consideration the needs of others and don’t intentionally disadvantage another to help yourself.”

Sherlock grinned. “But you can probably understand why, having never worked for money before, I was looking for someone to split the rent with me when I found John again.”

The preset time limit was coming close, and they wrapped up the interview shortly after that. If Steven looked displeased, Janet and Richard’s enthusiastic goodbyes more than made up for it. Finally, Mrs. Hudson ushered them and the camera crews out the front door into the massive crowd, and John leaned against the wall beside Anthea . “Well?” he asked. “How did we do?”

“I can see about five different arguments the Anti-Aliens will probably jump on,” she admitted, “and the next few weeks are probably going to be very difficult. But, in the long-term, this will go a long way towards cementing the Holmes’s credibility—and yours.” She secured the tape in her bag and nodded at him. “Mrs. Hudson will escort you and Sherlock to St. Bart’s on Saturday; Mycroft and I will meet you there.”

* * *

By Sunday night the interview with the reporters and the information from the doctors’ visit had been released to the public—with John, Sherlock and Mycroft’s consent, of course. On Monday morning, John straightened his shoulders and turned on the news, prepared for the worst.

The first thing that caught his eye was Harry. She looked terrible: Even with the camera’s distance, John could see deep shadows under her eyes, and she was hunched over and clutching her elbows. His gut clenched in pain and sympathy for her, and he gratefully leaned into Sherlock’s reassuring caress at his shoulder. As he watched, Sebastian’s boyfriend leaned across the gap between their chairs and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. John felt his blood boil and tore his eyes away.

In front of them, Sebastian hogged the screen as he spoke to a demonstration. “I have here a print-out of all the information to be gleaned from the interview on Friday and the reports from the examining scientists.” He held up a dauntingly thick sheaf of papers. “Having read it, I cannot  _begin_ to fathom why the Pro-Aliens are so keen to give them any control over our planet. Listen to this: The aliens have no need for either food or water to survive and can withstand nearly any attack. Not exactly vulnerable or easy to kill, are they? Then, there’s the description of their home planet: ‘Rock in all directions.’ Does that sound to you like a planet with vast resources, especially compared to our lush and fertile Earth? No. It sounds like a desolate wasteland.

“The aliens say they want to bring _peace,_ ” he spat. “They want to turn our planet into pacifists and enter us into a so-called community of pacifistic planets. But, we’ve seen what they did to poor James Flahave and Sebastian Moran; we know what they did to Flahave’s mother. _They killed them._ Pacifists, they call themselves? Ha! Look at the evidence: They’re dangerously strong and practically impossible to kill, and they want Earth—a planet with vast resources—to throw down its weapons. This isn’t a charity project, my friends. It’s systematic takeover!”

The crowd of Anti-Aliens roared in response. John pulled Sherlock into an embrace and watched, feeling as though his stomach were filled with ice.

“And, what will the Earth’s fate be after the aliens invade?” Sebastian continued once his followers had quieted. “Notice the description of their society: ‘We have no money’; ‘Only a few of us have specialised jobs…but the rest of us just perform the tasks that are needed.’ Doesn’t that sound familiar? According to the aliens—and you’ll notice the way Mycroft Holmes scrambled to cover for this slip—they come from a communist planet. We’ve seen how well communism works here, haven’t we? Communist countries push their citizens into squalor and attempt to invade other countries to take control of their resources; communist _aliens_ turn to other planets, instead!”

John furrowed his brow at the cheer from the audience. “Now, come on,” he muttered, smoothing a hand down Sherlock’s arm. “That’s hardly fair.  _Every_ invading country is motivated, at least in part, by taking control of the other nation’s resources.”

Sherlock huffed a weak laugh. “Besides, two brothers are hardly an invading army,” he added. “This is ridiculous—there is literally nothing Mycroft and I can do to convince them that we’re sincere, is there?” He sounded defeated.

Sparing a last glance for his sister, slumped motionless in the background, John flipped the telly off and wrapped both arms around Sherlock.  _They don’t matter,_ he wanted to say, but it was an obvious lie. As much as he wished it different, Sebastian’s words and the Anti-Aliens’ convictions stood in stark opposition to Sherlock and Mycroft’s mission. “It’ll be okay,” he said instead.  _No matter what happens, at least we’ll all have each other._

That didn’t stop the Anti-Alien community from gaining more public support from some conservative leaders, though. John and Sherlock watched in dismay as the public opinion polls showed a rising number of people who were against “allowing the aliens to stay on Earth,” which bolstered the Anti-Aliens in turn.

It had an immediate impact on their lives, too: The Pro-Aliens keeping vigil on Baker Street were quickly overcome by more vocal Anti-Aliens, and John was forced to once again turn up the music to cover the sound of chants. If anything, they were more enthusiastic than they’d been even in the beginning, and between the incessant shouting and the residual frustration of their attempt at sex, John felt his patience slipping from his grasp with each passing hour. He had yet to snap at an attempt at comfort from Sherlock—and wasn’t that all backward? John should be comforting  _him,_ not the other way around—but it was only a matter of time until his temper would break.

* * *

Just as he was beginning to debate the merits of spending the night at Mycroft’s to give them some space, salvation came in a fairly unexpected form. “What the—is that  _me?”_ John sputtered on his way to the toilet, staring at the television screen. The latest news programme boasted a slightly grainy picture of John leaning against some man in a restaurant booth. On second glance, he recognised the man as Sherlock’s primary disguise for in public.

“It’s _us,_ ” Sherlock corrected, tilting his head, “and that’s Angelo’s.” John mutely retraced his steps and sat beside him.

The newscaster’s voice explained, “An unnamed source sent in this photograph earlier today, which they claim to have taken with a camera phone. Doctor John Watson is easily identifiable on the left, and a close examination of the image suggests that the other man is, in fact, Sherlock Holmes in disguise.”

“This is from the dinner with Gabe, Alan and Sally,” John realised as the image zoomed in on the way Sherlock’s flattened limb had spread to cover John’s shoulders and outside arm, clearly marking him as alien. “That was after the other diners had gone, though, wasn’t it? Who took the picture?”

“Lestrade was the only one who took out his mobile,” Sherlock said, rippling slightly. “Come to think of it, he did take a little too long to type out and send that text.”

“But, why would he send it to the news?” John wondered, feeling slightly betrayed. _That was a private moment between friends._ He pulled his mobile and sent a text to Gabe asking as much.

Gabe called back almost immediately. “I was planning to tell you.”

John glanced at the image on the screen. “And when, exactly, where you planning to tell us?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting them to have a coherent story by today, was I?” Gabe shot back. “Look. I’m sorry I didn’t give you warning, but I was just getting so sick of seeing all that shit about Sherlock being some inhumane monster, alright? I figured I already had that picture, and if I could do even a little bit to bring Sherlock into a better light, I should do it, right?”

“And how is a paparazzi-style photo of us supposed to put him into a better light? That was a private moment, Gabe; it wasn’t meant to be spread across the globe.”

“That’s the point,” Gabe replied, and John pulled his mobile away for a second to stare at it in confusion. “It’s _not_ posed, which means that people will be more likely to trust it. Besides, you two look revoltingly adorable—how could that not get everyone’s sympathy? It’s like those kitten pictures that everyone coos over.”

_Alright,_ John had to concede when he scrutinised the picture on-screen. _It does show off Sherlock’s more cuddly side. Still…_ “Adorable, Gabe? Really? I think I’m offended.” Unspoken:  _I’m not happy about this, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt._

Sherlock looked up from the laptop he’d appropriated. “According to the Pro-Aliens, it’s an apt description,” he commented, turning the screen for John to see. John’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the blogosphere’s reactions, despite the image’s relative newness. _‘Aww, Sherlock looks so protective about his human—precious!!! <3’?! What in the world?_

Over the phone, Gabe said, “It is what it is, mate. You don’t want to know the sounds Sally made when I showed her the picture later.”

_Good lord. This is ridiculous._ He blinked in surprise as the reporter made a comment about how the image was a “genuinely heart-warming” portrayal of the aliens, “refreshing” in the midst of such bad publicity.  _Okay, maybe this plan has some merit, after all._

“Still, I _am_ sorry for not giving you warning,” Gabe was saying.

John shook his head, bemused, and turned away from the television. “Yeah, alright. Apology accepted.” He heard someone call for Gabe in the background. “Do you need to go?”

“Yes; I ducked out of the office to call you back. Listen, we’ll talk later, yeah?”

“Sure.”

To John’s incredulity, Pro-Aliens across the world reacted to the image with coos and squeals as Gabe had predicted. It was even enough to shift the balance between Pro- and Anti-Aliens back in their favour, and Anthea and Mycroft’s actions to improve public relations only served to improve the situation. The Anti-Aliens outside Baker Street were once again overrun by Pro-Alien fans, and John began to hope that the end of the conflict was near.

Unfortunately, the increase in Pro-Alien sentiments only served to make the Anti-Aliens desperate beyond even Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson’s predictions.

* * *

“John. Wake up.”

The sharp, tense tone jolted John into awareness. He blinked up to see Sherlock hovering over him, blurred enough that his voice had warped. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, fully alert within seconds.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock brandished his mobile. “There’s been a break-in at his house.”

_Shit._ “Have you told Gabe?” John asked, rolling out of bed and grabbing the nearest set of clothes. “Mrs. Hudson? Anthea should be taking care of things on that end, at least.”

“Anthea was attacked.” John froze and stared as Sherlock shuddered and paled further. “Mycroft says the intruders came across Anthea first. He didn’t realise they were there until he heard the sounds of the struggle. As of a few minutes ago, he said he’d contained them and that Anthea was unconscious.”

“Shit. Okay. Call him back and keep him on the line; keep him calm and make sure that no one else is hurt.” He stepped into his shoes and grabbed his own mobile. “We’ll grab Mrs. Hudson and go to the house. I’ll call Gabe on the way and have him meet us there.” Sherlock was staring at him, skin nearly white, so John paused at the top of the stairs and grabbed him in a hug. “They’ll be fine, Sherlock. Everything will be alright.”

Mrs. Hudson woke quickly at the pounding on her door, and the three of them were in a car within minutes of explaining the situation. “Mycroft’s not answering,” Sherlock said after several attempts. His skin lost what definition had remained and turned blindingly white.

_This just keeps getting better and better._ John took a stabilising breath and pulled on his battle-calm before resting a reassuring hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Gabe, yes,” he told the groggy voice on the other end of the line. “We have an emergency.” He pressed repetitive circles on Sherlock’s skin, smiling grimly at Mrs. Hudson when she did the same, and explained the situation over the phone.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Gabe promised. John could hear the rustle of clothing in the background. “She’s unconscious, you said? We’ll bring an ambulance with us, then. Do _not_ do anything stupid, John; don’t let Sherlock, either.”

The car fell into tense silence as they drove through the thankfully nearly-deserted streets. John checked the time on his phone. _Three-twenty. Who the hell breaks into a known alien’s house at three in the morning?!_

“I should have gone ahead,” Sherlock muttered, shifting beside him. He’d regained some of his form, but he still looked far from human. John kneaded the nape of his neck. “I could have been there by now.” _Calm,_ John tried to project against the rush of anxiety, forcing his own gut to unclench. _Calm. It’ll be alright. I’m sure they’re fine._

The house, when it finally came into view, was eerily silent.  _We beat Gabe, then._ Before the car pulled to a complete stop, Sherlock shoved himself out the door and sprinted to the front door. Cursing, John struggled out of his seatbelt and chased after him; he heard Mrs. Hudson spit out a choice word behind him, and in any other circumstance he would have frozen in shock. As it was, he kept running. “Sherlock, wait!”

He followed Sherlock through the foyer, familiar from his stay with Mycroft, and up the stairs, finally catching up to him in the study. “Jesus,” he muttered, skidding to a stop in the doorway and surveying the scene. Mycroft had used his formidable shape-shifting abilities to form himself into something out of a sci-fi horror film: He’d spread himself nearly flat to fill the width of the room, and although he was vaguely circular, the edges of his form snapped around in tendrils that collapsed on themselves seconds later only to swing out once again. Far from the bright pink of Mycroft’s natural form, the giant  _thing_ before them was a hellish mass of violent purples and maroons pulsing and writhing through a base of shadowy black. The end result looked a little like a demonic amoeba and a lot like it would be featuring in John’s nightmares in the near future .

Beyond the edges of the tendrils’ reach, John could just barely see the furious and panicked intruders—five of them—huddled against the far wall. It didn’t look like Mycroft had attacked them, but when one stepped too close to him Mycroft whipped a tendril around and frightened the errant man back against the wall. “Help!” one cried upon seeing John. “Please, god, you have to help us!” Mycroft shifted and blocked the line of sight.

Beside him, Sherlock extended an arm and brushed his brother’s skin. “He’s holding Anthea; she isn’t responding lucidly,” he reported, towing John forward. Mycroft seemed to calm at their presence, and he revealed Anthea. John ignored the shouts of the intruders as his attention was drawn to the centre of the quivering masss, where Anthea sat cradled in Mycroft’s careful embrace. Her eyes were open but unfocused, and she looked dazed.

“Anthea, I need to you to focus on me. Can you do that?” His gaze skittered over her face, cataloguing the relatively minor scrapes and bruises, and he ran a perfunctory check for further injury over the rest of her body. _Broken arm and a fairly major concussion; if she were more lucid, she’d be in a lot of pain._ He forced down his fury at the attackers and pulled on his professional stoicism.

She blinked at him slowly, and he noticed with a stab of concern that her pupils weren’t responding to light correctly. “J’n…?” she slurred.

“Is she alright?” Mycroft asked, startling John with a voice when by all rights he should be beyond speech in that form.

John glanced up and saw that he’d reformed as a human now that there were reinforcements. “She’s got a bad concussion and a broken arm; she needs to be taken to hospital,” he replied grimly, soothing Anthea by running his thumb over her knuckles. “Fortunately, neither of those should be life-threatening.” _Regardless, I don’t like that she’s still this disoriented after so long._

Mycroft rubbed careful circles across Anthea’s back, and she looked up at him. “Hurts,” she managed, leaning into his touch, and Mycroft paled for a brief moment. John pulled back and stood, allowing Mycroft to take Anthea’s weight while he stood with Sherlock.

They were cut off by a verbal attack. “You might be willing to sell out your planet for a good lay, Watson, but we’re not falling for their faulty rhetoric,” one of the intruders shouted, albeit shakily. Fury built in John’s gut as he recognized Sebastian Wilkes and beside him Jeremy Portillo. “The invasion is coming, isn’t it?  _Isn’t it?_ The plans of war are drawn, and we need to be prepared! We need to be ready to  _fight for our freedom!_ If that bitch hadn’t shown up out of fucking  _nowhere_ , we’d be with the Prime Minister by now with proof of their plot—but mark my words, Watson: We know the truth, and we’re watching. If you’ve got any sense left in you, you’ll cut loose and escape while you can.”

“You do _not_ get to call her that,” John snarled, advancing on the group of ragtag Anti-Aliens. Behind him, Sherlock hissed his name in warning, but John could barely hear him over his rage at Anthea’s mistreatment. “Anthea is Mycroft’s handler and a government agent. She is highly competent, and you will treat her with the respect she deserves. Is that understood?” He was practically shouting in Sebastian’s face at that point, so the only warning he got was Sherlock’s strangled yell before Jeremy grabbed John in a stranglehold.

_Idiot!_ John cursed himself as he struggled to escape the grip.  _Never take your eye off the enemy, Watson; your CO would have your head for a mistake as stupid as that!_ He abruptly stilled at the touch of cool metal against his throat.  _A knife?!_

“Alright, gentlemen, this is how things are going to go,” Jeremy growled past John’s ear. His voice was low and entirely too steady, considering the situation, and John felt a chill go down his spine.

“Jeremy,” Sebastian gasped. “We didn’t agree to this—”

“Shut up, Seb, and let me take care of this. If you hadn’t hit that vase, we would be out of here already, but you fucked this up.” Sebastian’s mouth closed with a _click._ “Now, we all know John here is just a pawn in your master plan, but you’re both clearly attached to him. So, here’s what’s going to happen: You two are going to drag the Bitch into the far corner of the room and stay there. We’re going to walk out of here, and if we have even the slightest reason to suspect that you’re disguising one of your freaky tentacles to follow us, John gets a gash in his throat.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’ll be fatal; maybe it won’t. You’ll just have to take that chance.”

“Jeremy, this is _murder_ you’re talking about—”

“ _Heel,_ Seb!” Sebastian went pale, but he didn’t try to interrupt again. Jeremy adjusted his grip around John’s windpipe and said, “When we get out of the house, assuming there are no police to greet us, I’ll knock John out and leave him for you to pick up. Understood?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. His form was terribly paled, but his voice was steady. “No, despite what you believe about us, neither of us are idiots, Portillo. You have no intentions of letting John go.” He rested a hand on Mycroft, who was still crouched and supporting Anthea. “We’ve seen your faces; you know there’s no way this won’t end in a prison sentence.”

“Damned aliens are too smart for their own good,” Jeremy muttered, tightening his grip and making John wheeze in his next breath. “You’re right,” he admitted. “That’s not my real plan. Now get in the corner and don’t follow us.”

“So, what’s your plan, Jeremy?” Sherlock asked, making no motion to comply. “You’re already facing charges of breaking and entering and assault of a government official. Do you really want to add murder to that list? Sebastian’s right; the punishment for murder is much more severe than what you’ll have to deal with now.”

“Except, none of that applies if we don’t get _caught._ Into the corner, if you please. I’m running out of patience.” The blade dug into John’s neck, and he fought against a flinch at the sting of broken skin. A trail of blood trickled down his throat, almost ticklish.

“Where are we going to go?” one of the other Anti-Aliens demanded, voice high and shaking. “Fuck, Jeremy; none of this was in the plan. I have a family! I can’t just hole up in some warehouse for the rest of my life!”

“ _Shut up, all of you!”_ Jeremy roared. “We knew this was a possibility, so man up and accept the consequences!”

“Yes, Jeremy,” Sherlock murmured into the silence following the outburst. “How are you going to get out of this? You have a hostage who will fight you every step of the way, two aliens who will do anything to get him back, and the British government backing them.”

“They won’t be backing you if we can prove you’re brainwashing people!” Jeremy shot back. The arm around John’s throat twitched.

“Are we back to that again?” Sherlock asked. “I thought the current Anti-Alien theory was that John was in it willingly for the mind-blowing sex?” And, okay, if it weren’t for the knife at his throat John would have snorted at that one.

“No, that was what Seb figured, and because he’s the head of the movement that’s what everyone else decided to follow. Unlike Seb, though, I spent quite a lot of time talking with Harriet Watson, and I think Flahave hit the nail on the head. He was probably the best expert on aliens, which is why you had to kill him, isn’t it? You couldn’t have someone with that kind of knowledge working against you.”

“So, what?” John rasped, Adam’s apple nudging the knife’s blade. “You’re going to try to kill me to save me, too? I’d rather live, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Of course not; we’re not barbarians,” Jeremy retorted. “We’re going to fix you—get these bastards out of your head. Now _get into the corner,_ you two. I’m not going to say it again.”

After a moment’s hesitation, where Sherlock and Mycroft were clearly considering taking Jeremy out to rescue John, they complied. Mycroft cradled Anthea to his chest and assured Jeremy, “You’re not going to escape. We will find you—all of you—and when we do, your punishment will be far worse than if you just give up now.”

Jeremy only sneered in response and dragged John to the door. “If you’re smart, you’ll get the hell off this planet before we free John and reveal you for what you really are. And, you  _won’t_ come back.” To the other Anti-Aliens, he said, “Let’s get out of here.” John dug his heels into the carpet and twisted, trying to free himself without slicing his own neck, but Jeremy’s grip held.  _Sherlock! God damn it, you’d better find me before they actually_ do _brainwash me into thinking you’re a monster. And, where the hell are the police?!_

However, the moment they stepped out of the room, there was a mighty  _clang!_ , and Jeremy grunted and collapsed. The knife skittered down John’s front before landing on the floor, and he whirled around to gape at Jeremy’s unconscious body and the unassuming landlady standing over him with a frying pan.

“Oh, dear. You don’t think I hit him a little too hard, do you?” she murmured, staring down at the body at her feet.

“Mrs. Hudson!” John cried in shock. _I’d forgotten all about her._ Inside the room, Sherlock and Mycroft made quick work of restraining the remaining Anti-Aliens with their tendrils.

She smiled at John and tilted his chin up to examine the wound on his neck. “Just because I haven’t been on active duty in a while doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten anything,” she reminded him. “This doesn’t look deep enough for stitches, but better to have the paramedics check it out when they arrive, anyway.”

John would have made a comment to the effect of “Where the bloody hell  _are_ they, anyway?”, but Sherlock took that moment to barrel across the room and engulf him in his arms. The tentacles he was using to restrain the intruders extended from his back like a bizarre set of ribbons, but John was still able to weave his arms through them to hug Sherlock in return. “You’re alright,” Sherlock muttered into John’s hair. “You’re alright; you’re alright; you’re alright.”

“Sorry,” John breathed in reply. _I always seem to get into these situations._

“Yes, what were you thinking, going right up to them like that?” Sherlock demanded, pulling back and framing John’s face with his hands. Mrs. Hudson made a delicate retreat to join Mycroft and Anthea. “You could have been killed—you nearly were.”

“I—it was stupid, in retrospect. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He smiled wearily. “I blame the stress.”

Sherlock sighed in what might have passed for a laugh in other circumstances and pulled John to him again. “You have to stop terrifying me like that,” he told him. “Really. I don’t think I can take another round of it.”

* * *

When they finally arrived, the paramedics dealt with the unusual scene with stark professionalism and had Anthea loaded up and on the way to hospital in less than fifteen minutes, stopping only to put a plaster on John’s throat and deem him otherwise healthy. The police cuffed each intruder as Sherlock and Mycroft released them and led them down to the cars with little fanfare. Lestrade stood beside them as each Anti-Alien paraded past, and only Jeremy, who had woken with what was probably a killer headache, put up any kind of resistance. His furious shouts echoed back up the stairs as he left the building, and Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he sighed, turning to the assembled. “What happened here?”

“At approximately two fifty in the morning, I was working in my bedroom when I felt a heavy impact through the floor,” Mycroft reported after a brief pause. His voice was flat, but his body shook with ripples and shudders, and he had yet to turn his gaze away from the doorway through which Anthea had left. “I reformed into a humanoid body and heard muffled shouts. Upon investigation, I found Sebastian Wilkes, Jeremy Portillo and several unknown assailants fighting Anthea in the hall outside her bedroom. She was still dressed in her sleepwear, and when I turned the corner Portillo swung her into the wall by her arm. The impact was strong enough to displace several framed paintings, knock her unconscious and break her arm.”

His form wavered, and he was several shades paler when he’d stabilised again. John ran a hand down his arm and loosely linked their fingers in an attempt at comfort when Mycroft spoke again: “I immediately stepped in and pushed the intruders away from Anthea, using my body to form a shield. I…may have used more force than intended, but none of them should have suffered lasting damage. We remained in this impasse until Sherlock, John and Mrs. Hudson arrived.” He continued on to describe the events that had occurred after Sebastian insulted Anthea, and Lestrade gaped at them for several seconds.

“Jesus,” Lestrade cursed. “I don’t even know what to say to that. You three really have the worst luck on the planet, don’t you?”

John smiled humourlessly. “I won’t argue that.”

Beside him, Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. “When can I go see Anthea at hospital?” he asked, form blurring just slightly. “She was still mostly unresponsive when they took her away. I’m…concerned.”

Lestrade grimaced over his notepad. “We need to get your statements before we can release you, but I’ll make it as quick and painless as possible, considering the circumstances. You do realise, though, that the doctors probably won’t let you in to see her until visiting hours tomorrow morning, right?”

Mycroft paled even further and leaned heavily into Sherlock’s shoulder; John considered him for a moment and squeezed his hand. “She’ll be alright,” he promised quietly. “Just get through this and we’ll see what we can do to get you in to see her, alright?”

After a few seconds, Mycroft nodded and straightened, stance firmed. “How else can I help you, Detective Inspector?”

* * *

The moment the doctors let visitors into Anthea’s room, Mycroft rushed to her bedside and snatched up her unbound hand. Immediately, the heavy blurring and frighteningly pale shade of his skin dropped away; Anthea blinked up at him with a hazy expression. “Mycroft…?”

“We’re in hospital,” Mycroft assured her. “You’re safe here.” He stroked his fingers over her arm and wrist, and her eyes slipped closed again. “John.”

John stepped forward, Sherlock at his side, and picked up the treatment sheet. “She’s being kept for observation overnight because of the concussion,” he translated, “and the break was fairly minor, so she should be out of the cast in six weeks or so.”  _None of the cuts or bruises were serious enough to warrant stitches or a close examination for broken bones or ruptured organs, at least._ “She’ll make a full recovery, no problem.”  _At least neither of us will have to carry permanent scars from this encounter. No visible ones, at least._

Mycroft’s fingers flattened and spread over Anthea’s wrist, and he pressed against the underside to feel the reassuring thrum of her pulse. “Good.”

Mrs. Hudson slipped in and moved to stand by John. “Poor ducks,” she cooed. “The Anti-Aliens won’t go unpunished for this, though.”

_But, that may be part of the problem,_ John thought, watching Mycroft hover over Anthea, one limb slowly winding up her arm. Sherlock stood beside his brother and leaned into his side.  _The conflict is still so combative and ‘us-versus-them,’ but retribution is against their ideals. It just polarises the issue further, doesn’t it?_ He sighed.  _How else can we hope to succeed in the face of such strong opposition, if not through fighting back, though? If Mrs. Hudson hadn’t ambushed Jeremy, I’d be god-knows-where with them right now._

He stood by for nearly an hour while Mycroft reassured himself of Anthea’s wellbeing, but he still couldn’t come up with an answer.

* * *

With the way their luck seemed to go in these matters, John supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when the Anti-Aliens took the arrest of their leader as an attack and redoubled their efforts. Anthea agreed to press charges against her attackers with a vicious zeal, and she and Mrs. Hudson convinced Mycroft to reluctantly do the same. “This may be our only chance to remove both Wilkes and Portillo from the field,” Mrs. Hudson told him. “Wilkes might have shown more restraint than Portillo that night, but he’s not going to just accept that he was in the wrong, and you know it: He’s too invested at this point to go back on his stance, even if he recognises how out-of-control he let things get. If he’s in jail, the Anti-Aliens will lose both their guidance and their reputation. And, Portillo is another matter entirely; he’s clearly unstable and convinced that he’s righteous.”

“But, if they’re locked away, won’t they become martyrs for their cause, like Moriarty was?” John pressed. While he could press charges—and he was—without fear of major retribution, it was due entirely to his human nature. For the aliens, the decision was much more politically fraught.

“To the stalwart Anti-Aliens, yes.” Anthea shrugged with her good arm. “Nothing will convince the most fanatical that they’re wrong—in fact, some will probably claim that Portillo had the right idea, much as it horrifies us. However, the centrist Anti-Aliens who really aren’t sure what to think will pay attention to _why_ they were arrested in the first place, and that will put the Anti-Aliens in a bad light, giving us the advantage.”

Mycroft grimaced, shivering lightly. “For Wilkes, at least, it still seems wrong to give up on him—to _condemn_ him—like that. Everyone deserves a second chance, and he looked like he really regretted it in the end.”

“He’s had several second chances,” Mrs. Hudson finished. “The latest of which he used to injure Anthea and threaten John.” Anthea shot her a horrified look as Mycroft flinched and paled, and Mrs. Hudson winced when she realised what she’d said. Her voice softened as she continued, “Mycroft, luv, I know it’s a hard decision to make, but it’s not as though he’ll be locked up for life or sent to his death, especially if he does the intelligent thing and pleads guilty.”

After a few seconds of thought, he nodded. “Alright. It’s not as though it’s any different from the criminals Sherlock catches, after all.”

All of the trespassers, including both Sebastian and Jeremy, were tried and sentenced over the next month. Everyone except Jeremy pled guilty and proclaimed their remorse, managing to wrangle lesser—though still substantial—sentences. As predicted, the Anti-Aliens as a whole were emphatically  _not pleased_ with the development, but the controversy split its base significantly. While only a few Anti-Aliens renounced the community for Pro-Alien sympathies, a large portion of the remaining Anti-Aliens informally created a new base. “We agree that the alien presence here is unwanted and should be removed,” their homepage proclaimed, “but we cannot condone the recent actions of fanatical Anti-Aliens.”

And, yes: The so-named ‘fanatical Anti-Aliens’ did, in fact, raise Sebastian and Jeremy to martyr statuses, claiming that the aliens were “inhuman monsters with no understanding of basic human decency,” but if others agreed, they seemed wary of aligning themselves with those followers. It was a refreshing contrast to the original outrage and support for Moriarty in the beginning, when everyone had overlooked his crimes in favour of his ideals.

* * *

A few weeks after Anthea had recovered from the attack, when her bruises no longer showed through her makeup, she once again appeared in their sitting room without Mycroft. “I’m sorry to do this to you again, Sherlock,” she started. “I know that I exclude you from a lot of our conversations, but I need to talk to John privately. Mycroft is downstairs with Mrs. Hudson; I think he’ll appreciate the support of your company.”

Sherlock exchanged a bemused and worried glance with John and gave him a reassuring squeeze around the shoulders before heading down the stairs. John closed the door behind him and took the chair across from Anthea, tensing in preparation of yet another tough conversation.  _Last time it was about dating aliens; god only knows how she’s going to top that._ “What’s the problem this time?”

Without preamble, she blurted, “I know what happened that night at the pool—that Mycroft killed Moriarty.” John choked, and she grimaced awkwardly before elaborating, “Mycroft and I…Since getting back from hospital, we’ve barely spent an hour apart.” She shook her head and laughed, sounding overwhelmed and awed. “He really does love me, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” John agreed. _I can be sure of that much._

Anthea hummed and twisted her fingers together in an uncharacteristic display of nerves. “I think I might love him, too.” She shook her head. “Anyway, yesterday he told me that he needed to share something with me, and…well. Here we are.” While John scrambled to find an appropriate response, she tilted her head at him. “I thought they were pacifists?”

John swallowed and clenched his hands together. “They are. Completely.”

“But, he killed for you.”

It wasn’t a question, but John answered anyway. “He did.”  _And then he could barely stand to look at me for the next few weeks because I reminded him of the blood on his hands._ His gaze dropped to his lap; he watched blankly as his knuckles went white.

The room fell silent for several seconds, long enough that John jumped when Anthea’s hand entered his field of vision and settled on his arm. “He doesn’t regret it, you know,” she said softly. John looked up, startled, as she knelt on the carpet in front of him. “Maybe he did in the beginning, but he’s had a lot of time to think about it since then. Hell, I spent all last night considering every angle of the situation, and it boiled down to Moriarty’s life or yours. We know his range of influence spanned across the world. He never would have stayed in prison—I’m not sure he would even have gone farther than the trial! As the most vulnerable target of the three of you, you’d have been in constant danger from a multinational criminal organisation.” She squeezed his hands between her own, smiling in the face of his shock. “As—as terrible as it is that he had to do that for you, Mycroft made the right choice for that situation, and he knows it.”

John sighed and bowed his forehead down to rest against their joined hands. Anthea’s cast dug into his eyebrow, a constant reminder. “There was no right choice in that situation,” he mumbled. “I just—God, I wish he’d never been placed in that position. It’s not fair. I’m glad to be alive, of course I am, and I’m so grateful to him for saving me, but I still can’t help but think that if they’d never known me it wouldn’t have been a problem in the first place.”

He felt Anthea’s eyes on the nape of his neck for several seconds before she shifted and pulled him closer. “Come here,” she murmured, drawing him into an embrace. “You three, I swear, are the most tragically self-sacrificing idiots I’ve ever had the honour of knowing.” John snorted at that, and she allowed him to pull back. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Yes. We’re…dealing. Coping. Thank you for the hug.” Shaking his head to dismiss the topic from mind, John leaned back in the chair and waited for Anthea to pick herself up and move back to her chair. “So, how are you? Knowing what you know about the pool, I mean. It’s a lot to take in at once.”

“Dealing. Coping,” she echoed back at him wryly. Sobering, she added, “It’s strange, trying to reconcile this with the Mycroft I’ve known for the last year and what I remember of the night of the break-in. To be fair, I had my doubts about his claims of peacefulness when I first found out he was an alien, especially in the wake of Moriarty’s death, but…” She smiled and shrugged. “By nature, he’s the embodiment of the phrase ‘wouldn’t harm a fly,’ isn’t he?”

John chuckled and nodded. “That he is.” He levelled a considering look on her. “If I’m wrong about this, I’m sorry for making such an assumption, but I’m getting the impression that you’re going to take him up on his offer for a romantic relationship.” She responded with a jerky nod. “Then, I have a warning for you regarding the taste of their skin…”

* * *

Several embarrassing yet amusing minutes later, John followed Anthea down to collect the aliens from Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and he was gratified to see the slight blurring of Mycroft’s skin resolve itself at Anthea’s caress. “Did this help?” Mycroft asked Anthea on their way out, almost too softly for John to hear. He did miss Anthea’s response under the sound of Mrs. Hudson closing her door behind them, but the kiss she pressed to Mycroft’s cheek just before opening the front door was nowhere near as subtle. John turned away and led Sherlock upstairs with a grin.

“So, I take it your talk with Anthea went well?” Sherlock asked, pulling John into a web of limbs and carrying him the last few steps up the stairs and into the sitting room. They collapsed together on the couch, and Sherlock tangled his newly-formed limbs around John’s.

“Very. That’s four of us who know about Moriarty, now,” John sighed. _At least we can trust Anthea to keep it secret. I hope._

Sherlock hummed and buried his face against John’s throat, a light pressure tracing the fading scar from Jeremy’s knife. “And four of us in our little rag-tag family on Earth,” he said.

_Right, because Mycroft is dating her now—at least, he’d better be, or he’s going about this all wrong. I guess that makes her my adoptive sister-in-law._ He swallowed, feeling bittersweet as he remembered the way Harry had disowned him.  _It’s like I’m trading in one sister for another._ He huffed a slightly broken laugh, and Sherlock curled closer. A spike of cold worry—not his own—bloomed through his chest. “I’m fine,” he reassured the alien. “It’s the family you choose that counts, not the one you’re born with, right?”

Sherlock dropped a kiss to the nape of his neck and said nothing.

* * *

As the weeks passed, the media labelled the Anti-Aliens who still promoted Wilkes’ name as radical fanatics, and public opinion of them dropped; similarly, those Anti-Aliens who recognised the error of Wilkes’ actions kept their heads low and out of the public eye. This left Pro-Alien sentiments free space to expand and settle as the dominant public perception of Sherlock and Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft spent one afternoon gleefully crossing out potential courses in their plan, and they grinned at each other over the result.

“I think it’s time,” Mycroft announced, sitting back. John quirked an eyebrow at him, and he elaborated: “A conference with the planet’s political leaders. We didn’t think it would even have a possibility of success for several years, especially with Sebastian’s vocal stance, but the break-in accelerated everything substantially.” He extended a hand as he spoke and hooked it around Anthea’s uncasted wrist.

“Don’t you worry about it, Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson cooed. “You’ll do a wonderful job, I’m sure.”

So, with a sponsorship from the British government, Mycroft and Anthea organised a gathering in a highly secured location—even John and Sherlock were left out of the loop for that one, though John secretly entertained suspicions of Orkney—of the major world powers. “I will, of course, speak with the leaders of every government that is willing to hear me out,” Mycroft assured the international media, “but it would be impractical to hold a conference with all the nations’ leaders in attendance. Instead, I will make several ‘waves’ so as to afford each representative’s concerns the attention they deserve.”

After the first meeting, however, Mycroft was clearly perturbed when he next visited Baker Street. “The Russian President brought a translator who failed to translate properly,” he grumbled, sliding into Sherlock’s grasp, “and he didn’t even realise. I had to stop my presentation to correct him myself. It didn’t win me many points with the leaders, as I’m sure you could imagine.”

John ran a hand across Mycroft’s back. “Well, at least you knew to correct him, right? It could have been worse.”

Mycroft rippled lightly and peered at him with one eye. “I wasn’t expecting to take such an active role in this,” he commented, voice blank with what John guessed was emotional exhaustion. “It was supposed to be all about your people coming to find peace for themselves with subtle guidance, not me leading them like—like stubborn mules.”

Sherlock smoothed a flattened palm over Mycroft’s head, and whatever he said through the contact was enough to sooth the lingering tremors in Mycroft’s form. John felt a slight pang at being necessarily left out of the loop, but he viciously curbed it.  _I will_ not  _let my jealousy taint their connection._ He shook his head, dismissing the unease, and looked back at the door. “Where is Anthea?”

“Planning the next conference,” Mycroft sighed. “I gave a copy of my ideal path for the planet to each nation’s leader, but who knows what they’ll do with it?” He straightened from Sherlock’s embrace. “It’s frustrating, having to start over, essentially. I’m covering topics I’d already established from within their governments, but in the months where the Anti-Aliens ruled the public sphere, they managed to undo most of my work.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Sherlock cut in. “They might not have kept your political interferences, but they haven’t put any of the criminal or terrorist organisations you’ve caught for them back on the streets, either. Not even the Commissioner has released the criminals caught on my investigations.”

“And, Lestrade told us at dinner the other night that hate crimes have gone down since you two showed yourselves—at least in the London area,” John added. “So, even if the governments are being slow to adjust, you’re having an impact on the people of Earth.” Both aliens stared at him with amusement colouring their expressions and postures, and he shifted. “What?”

“Well, brother of mine, perhaps you were right about individualism after all,” Mycroft said instead, smiling.

John remembered the argument the two had been having when he first found Sherlock in England and groaned. “I’d forgotten about that,” he admitted. “Are you two still fighting it out? I thought you’d reached a consensus in Orkney.”

“We did, and we aren’t,” Sherlock assured him. “Now, because Mycroft is clearly feeling better, it’s a beautiful day out, and I need to catalogue the streets of London again: We’re going for a walk around the city. I’ll clear it with Mrs. Hudson, and we’ll leave as soon as the car arrives.”

* * *

Only one other conference had a strongly negative impact on Mycroft’s fortitude: He’d been unable to visit Baker Street that evening, but he spoke to Mrs. Hudson, John and Sherlock through webcam. “Are we sure that we’re doing the right thing, here?” were his first words.

John’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Involving all the world’s nations in this was a brilliant idea: It makes  _us_ responsible for our own peace.”

“Yes, but is it right to force humanity into peace? What if they don’t want it?” He blurred noticeably even through the internet video.

“Mycroft, what are you talking about?” Mrs. Hudson cooed. “Of course we want peace. Who in the world tried to convince you otherwise?”

He sighed. “Several of the leaders in today’s meeting brought up the issue. Did you know that war can actually boost a nation’s economy? But—and here’s the important bit—what we’re introducing to Earth isn’t anything new. Humans have had all the resources they’ve needed for peace since the dawn of time, so there must be a reason that they still choose to go to war. Do we have the right to change an entire species’ culture for what we believe is the ‘greater good?’ Ultimately, who is to say whether war is necessarily and inherently bad?”

“How could war possibly be good?” Sherlock replied, genuinely puzzled if the tone of his voice was any indication. “It causes—even _promotes_ —wide-scale death.”

“And, I can’t imagine any sane person actually _wanting_ that,” John agreed. “Maybe the side benefits to war, yes; the actual war itself, though, is terrible. Whatever they’ve been telling you there, believe this: Humanity believes that the deaths of war are tragedies. We do want to change, no matter what the politicians may say about the economy of wartime.”

Mycroft nodded, and while he still didn’t seem entirely reassured, most of the tension left his posture. “Yes. I think you’re right; it just seemed so uncertain at the meeting. He was very good with words.” He smiled at them. “Thank you. I need to go talk to Anthea, now, but I’ll keep you up-to-date.” The webcam flickered off.

* * *

In the conferences that followed, Mycroft managed to convince all but the most strongly opposed national leaders to at least give his plan a try, and they drafted and signed a basic treatise under which all violent conflicts were to be immediately stalled and held in limbo until negotiations could take place. Needless to say, the positive perception of the aliens soared. It was under the influence of this optimism that John finally decided to return to work. After all, even if Sherlock still wasn’t allowed to assist the Met, he had been granted free reign over the city and could easily entertain himself, John reasoned.

And, well. If the kiss goodbye on the morning that he left for the Met was more than a little desperate and bittersweet despite their closed lips, John certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. It didn’t seem fair to mention his uneasiness with leaving Sherlock when Sherlock would be the one left behind, and he had other things to worry about when he arrived at the morgue: Namely, Molly and Alan’s description of her building stress so many weeks before.

As it turned out, he nearly crashed into her when he walked through the door, and she stumbled back with a startled squeak. “O-oh. John. You’re…back.” Molly swallowed and crushed her clipboard to her chest. “They didn’t tell me you were coming back.”

“Well, I’m here,” John replied. They stared at each other in an awkward silence as he looked her over. _This is the same Molly that threw a clipboard at Alan? She still looks like the Molly I know, if a little quieter._ Then, he realised that what he’d taken for poorly-applied make-up was actually shadows under Molly’s eyes, and his gut clenched with concern. _I should have come and talked to her when Alan first told me there was a problem…What’s going on?_

“I’m sorry,” Molly blurted, and she blinked away tears. “I—sorry. I should—I should get back to work.” Her voice was high and strained. “You can take the man who just came in; it’s probably natural causes, but they want to make sure.”

“Molly, wait.” He caught at her shoulder as she turned away, but she shrugged him off. 

“Not now, John. I can’t right now. Can we just go back to work, pretend nothing’s wrong?”

_She’s…shaking?_ Struck, John nodded. “Alright. We can do that.”

The smile didn’t come close to reaching her eyes, but she nodded and gave him the information on the body.

* * *

On John’s third day back at work, Molly finally broke the tense atmosphere. “I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and took a slow breath. “For Jim. I—I didn’t realise what he was, and I should have known. I should have  _seen._ But, I didn’t, and he hurt you—he hurt you and Sherlock  _so much—_ and I need to say I’m sorry. So…I’m sorry.” Whatever had been fuelling her rush of words sputtered out, and her gaze dropped. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I had to say it.”

For several seconds, John stared at her blankly while she fidgeted.  _Oh, god. It’s been_ months  _since we dealt with Moriarty. Surely she’s not still …?_ He shook himself and moved to her side, gently shaking one of her shoulders.  “Molly. Look at me.” She wasn’t crying when she turned her face to him, at least. “Have you talked to anyone? You know, since Jim”— _she was his girlfriend; be considerate—_ “passed away?”

She shook her head. “Why bother? I should just be happy that no one’s realised I was his g-girlfriend. You and Sherlock have been taking the brunt of the press. Besides, it’s not like I have anything to tell. Jim just used me to get close to Sherlock. It’s fine. I’m f-fine.” She tried to give him a smile, but it fell far short.

John rubbed his thumb over her shoulder. “He was good at manipulation, Molly. Very good. Anyone would have been fooled. You can’t blame yourself for what he did.” Her face twitched, and he could tell that she was biting back a sharp response.  _“Don’t._ I mean it: Sherlock and I are  _fine_ ; we’ve been dealing with whatever the press can throw at us, and we’ve been making things work. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“I know that. Of course I know that! It’s not like I _asked_ him to do any of the horrible things he did.” She turned her face away and mumbled, softly enough that John had to strain his ears to hear, “Stupid, stupid.”

“You’re not stupid, Molly.” She snorted, and he shook her shoulder. “You’re _not._ Trusting, big-hearted, maybe even a little naïve, yes; but you shouldn’t be ashamed because Jim pulled the wool over your eyes. Not a single one of us blames you for it. None of us saw it coming, either—not even Sherlock, and he sees everything.” He smiled, hoping to relieve some of the tension of the atmosphere. “Believe me; he actually has eyes in the back of his head.”

Molly chuckled obligingly and turned back to face him. Her eyes were damp, but she was smiling. “We should get to work,” she said, voice almost steady. After a second, she added, “Thank you. For everything.” She ducked away from his hand and walked away, knuckles white around her clipboard.

* * *

Less than a week later, Lestrade coughed and changed his posture while noting the results of one of John’s autopsies. John blinked and faltered in his explanation, setting the forceps down. “Problem?”

“Unfortunately,” Lestrade grumbled, glancing down at the corpse between them, “you’ve just managed to destroy my last theory on this case.” He sighed and peeled off the gloves he’d been wearing to run a hand through his hair. “God, if there was ever a time when we needed Sherlock.”

“Yes, well. Shame the Commissioner has rather shot that idea down, isn’t it?” It took a little effort to calmly return his attention to the body, keeping his frustration hidden. “We’ll just have to fumble along and hope no one else ends up dead before we can catch the one who did _this.”_ He waved a hand around the morgue, encompassing the two other bodies that had appeared with the same signature speckles as the one on the slab.

Lestrade nodded, pained. “If there weren’t so many safeguards against it, I’d almost be happy to sneak him onto the scenes myself, but if it got out that I—that  _any_ of us—knowingly let him onto a crime scene against the Commissioner’s direct orders, it’d be more than just our jobs lost.” 

“And, while we might be able to pull it off once, there are too many ways it’d go wrong. We’d get caught,” John agreed. _A sympathetic officer would solve the touch-test at the edge of scenes, but all it takes is one that won’t go along with it and we’re done for._

“True.” Lestrade tucked his hands into his pockets and lowered his voice. “Still, while I’m legally bound to toss him out if I know he’s on-scene, there’s not much I’d be able to do if I didn’t realise it was him.”

John blinked. “You remember that Sherlock’s human forms are documented, right? Anthea has them on copy, and he had to agree not to take any forms except those in public. If he got caught in a different person’s skin—and that still doesn’t explain how you’d explain his presence on-scene, anyway—he’d be in even more trouble for breaking that agreement.”

“Human forms, yes, but he can take more forms than just human, right? He can turn into inanimate objects. Anyway, as long as _I don’t know he’s there,_ I can’t kick him out, now can I?”

“Oh— _oh._ ” John tilted his head, considering. _He could form himself as a coat rack or something, I suppose._ “That…might work, actually. Though, how would he communicate what he finds with you, if you’re not supposed to know he’s there?”

Lestrade shrugged. “In the hypothetical case that he were to be on a crime scene without my knowledge, I’m sure he’d find a way to give me the relevant information. It’s Sherlock, after all. But, that’s not likely to happen, is it?” He leaned over the body and gestured to the ankle. “What else can you tell me? Might as well know just how poorly my theories fit with the facts.”

* * *

When John suggested the idea over a homemade dinner of linguini (Sherlock was branching out in his cooking endeavours; John suspected it was due to boredom), Sherlock brightened and immediately started elaborating on the possibility. “Lestrade may have some hidden genius, after all,” he decided. “I could text him my conclusions—no, that would leave too much trace if it was caught. A note slipped in the pocket would be much subtler, if he can resist the urge to jump and draw attention to himself.”

John popped another bite of pasta into his mouth and smiled at the complete change in demeanour.  _I haven’t seen him so lively since we got back from France,_ he thought.  _I keep forgetting how much he and Mycroft love their jobs._ He watched, happy on Sherlock’s behalf, as the alien worked out the logistics of sneaking onto the crime scene. Finally, Sherlock’s attention sharpened on John. “You said that Lestrade has a current case that’s giving him trouble? What can you tell me about it?”

Swallowing, John marshalled his mental notes on the case. “In the last two weeks, three women have turned up dead—poison. What set them apart are the speckles on their skin; they’re very distinctive and almost certainly a result of the poison that killed them. All three of them had what appear to be snake bites on their ankles, but no known snake venom would cause the victims’ speckles. Greg originally thought it might have been the first victim’s brother because the brother owns several snakes, but there’s no connection between the brother and the other two victims.”

“Intriguing,” Sherlock agreed. He steepled his hands in front of his lips, and his gaze unfocussed. “I do believe I’ll pay an unexpected visit to the Met tomorrow.”

* * *

When John arrived home from work the next day, Sherlock bombarded him before he could even take a breath. “It was so simple when I saw all the clues,” he blurted, jumping up from the sofa to rid John of his jacket and tote him back to sit with him, “but it was still  _fantastic._ Oh, how I’ve missed the sensation of putting all the traces together and knowing that they’ll be used to improve the world, just a tiny bit.”

“I take it you went to the crime scenes with Lestrade?” John asked, relaxing into the alien’s hold. He pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips and leaned back, amused and pleased with Sherlock’s enthusiasm.

“Yes, and everything went perfectly. It was one of the workers at Roylotts’ bath products company; he put a poison in some shampoo that he gave to his nagging wife—the first victim—and decided to repeat the method on his mistress and therapist when it proved so successful. It was wonderful! Well, I suppose the mystery of the killer’s identity could have been more complex, as it was terribly easy once I found the connection between all three victims, but you have to take these things in baby steps, I suppose. To be honest, I would have been happy even if it were no more than a simple _burglary._ ” The word fell from Sherlock’ lips like a curse, and John suppressed a huff of laughter. “It feels good to be back in the work.”

“Oh? I couldn’t tell. You seemed pretty low-key about the whole thing.” John grinned at Sherlock’s eye-roll and ruffled his hair, smiling all the wider as the strands caught at his fingers in retaliation. “I’m not sure if you would have survived a more challenging crime; you seem about to burst as it is. Though, I guess you’d at least have the dubious honour of proving spontaneous combustion possible.”

Sherlock mock-growled and slid across John’s front, reforming on his other side with an arm across his shoulders. “Alright, fine. How was your day, dear?”

“Not particularly notable, darling,” John teased in return. “A long day flirting with the clients at the office, but you needn’t fear: I resisted their seductive ruses and remained faithful to my domestic beauty back home.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Sherlock said dryly, dropping a casual kiss to John’s lips. “I can only hope I hold more appeal than the ‘clients’ at the morgue.”

John smothered a giggle in Sherlock’s neck and twined the fingers of one hand through Sherlock’s hair. “It’s a close call, but I think you manage it.” He grinned against the oil-plastic texture of alien skin, and Sherlock retaliated with aggressive cuddling, which devolved in to mock wrestling. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock won. “I’m glad you were able to get back to work,” John murmured when they’d settled into a content tangle of limbs again. “It’s good to see you fulfilled again.”

Sherlock hummed and carded a few strands through John’s hair. “Thank you for making the wait bearable in the meantime,” he replied. John smiled and tugged him that tiny bit closer, certain that he was radiating emotional warmth through their connection.

* * *

Several weeks  and four cases (for Sherlock) later, John blinked at the boxes and packs of chocolate heaped in a giant mound on the counters of their kitchen. “Sherlock?” he called over his shoulder. “Can you come in here?” He spared the mess a worried look.

There was a muffled thump from upstairs, and the familiar blob of alien appeared at his side several seconds later. Sherlock extended a tendril and wrapped it around John’s wrist, and John smiled under the blooming warmth in his chest.

Still, it did nothing to dull the confusion. Gesturing to the mass of chocolate in their kitchen, he asked, “What’s this about?”

Sherlock reformed fully, and the tendril on John’s wrist shifted into a hand. “I landed on Earth a year ago today,” he said, explaining nothing at all.

“True enough,” John agreed, “but what does that have to do with the chocolate?” _And good lord, how much did it all cost?_

“You like chocolate,” Sherlock said, grinning at him.

_Wait._ “Sherlock, is this an anniversary gift?”

“In a sense.” Sherlock stepped behind John and enveloped him in an embrace. John could feel his grin on the back of his head, and muted amusement filtered through their contact. “But, you’re not to eat it yet. I have a surprise for you.”

“Alright.” Still bemused, John shrugged. “Was there any chocolate left on the shelves after you finished with it?”

Sherlock huffed a laugh and nuzzled into John’s hair. “Of course. I didn’t buy  _that_ much.” He pressed a kiss to John’s cheek and pulled away. “Keep your evening free. We’ve got plans.”

* * *

Whatever Sherlock had planned didn’t involve dinner, apparently, so John settled in with reheated pizza and watched Sherlock bustle around the kitchen. He set up a large sauce pan on the stove and dropped in several chunks of chocolate, and John’s eyebrows rose. “Chocolate fondue?” he guessed.

“Close, but not exactly.” Sherlock stirred the chocolate as it slowly melted, and he stretched that arm so that he could sit beside John as well. “It will be a while until it’s ready; is there anything good on the telly?”

They managed to find a documentary on the history of space exploration—yet another example of how the public’s fascination with the aliens had become both diminished and diffused—and settled in to watch. It didn’t seem to hold Sherlock’s interest very well, much to John’s complete surprise: He’d expected Sherlock to be utterly fascinated by the history of mankind’s tentative reaches for the stars, but Sherlock fidgeted and scooted around on the sofa until he and John were lying flat along the cushions and intertwined around each other.

At that point, Sherlock settled a bit, and John relaxed into the weight on his chest and the smooth drone of the narrator’s voice. He was roused a few minutes later, though, when Sherlock began trailing his fingers up and down John’s sides and nuzzling into his neck. The sensation wasn’t uncomfortable—far from it—but in the wake of the disastrous attempt at sex after the first doctor’s visit, they hadn’t attempted to move beyond chaste, close-mouthed kisses and cuddling. This had a distinctly more purposeful feel to it, and John found himself stirring in spite of himself.

“What are you doing?” he asked, twisting to look Sherlock in the face.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock replied.

_He doesn’t mean the closed-lip way we’ve been kissing,_ John knew. He dragged his free hand up Sherlock’s back, where his spine would be if he were human, and Sherlock arched into the touch. “I thought…”

“ _Kiss me.”_

Fully interested now, there wasn’t much John could do to resist that offer. He leaned forward and, bracing himself for the inevitable god-awful taste, dove into Sherlock’s mouth before recoiling so hard he nearly brained himself on the armrest.

Except. Except, it didn’t taste bad at all. There was no sign of the revolting aftertaste he had yet to erase from his memory. Brows unconsciously furrowing in confusion, he swiped his tongue across his own lips and blinked as he recognized the flavour.  _Chocolate._ “Oh my god,” he gasped, gaping up at Sherlock’s brilliant grin. “Chocolate fondue kisses. How…?” Sherlock hadn’t got up to collect the liquefied chocolate, still simmering away on the stove.

“I am,” Sherlock reminded John, leaning down for another kiss, and this one left John gasping, “an _excellent_ insulator. And my arm’s currently hollow. Amazing what you can do with an empty tube and a vacuum.”

_Oh my god, you’re brilliant._ John moaned and pulled Sherlock back down to him, documentary forgotten, and set about exploring Sherlock’s mouth. No matter where his tongue or lips touched, they were met with a thin layer of chocolate that he could never quite lick away completely. He nuzzled and licked and felt himself soaring because this— _this—_ was what had been missing the first time: This intimate closeness that was somehow no less intense than the sweaty drag of skin across skin and a connection that couldn’t be found anywhere else, full stop.

John wouldn’t say that kissing was his favourite part of sex, but it was pretty high up there. And, Sherlock was a  _damned_ good kisser, considering he’d never had the opportunity to do it before.  _Probably reading my imagination for ideas,_ John thought deliriously as Sherlock turned the tables and pressed him back, and that chocolate-flavoured tongue exploring the crevices of his mouth sent him clutching at the smooth skin of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock hummed and pulled away from John’s lips with a  _pop,_ dragging his mouth down John’s neck and working his shirt off. “You—this feels wonderful, this emotion. So  _alien_ to me,” he murmured into the hollow of John’s throat. John shivered and guided Sherlock’s face back up to meet his own. “Incredible, John; you’re incredible,” he breathed just before John yanked them back together.

He knew what Sherlock meant, though. John felt the tell-tale warmth in his chest, indicative of Sherlock’s love for him, heat until it was nearly burning—a supernova in his ribcage. Beneath that, John could feel just an echo of his own lust filtered through Sherlock and reflected back at him. He gasped into Sherlock’s mouth, sitting up and lifting his arms so that Sherlock could divest him of his vest, and pushed Sherlock back into the cushions so that he knelt over Sherlock’s thighs. With barely a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock disappeared his own shirt as well.

_I can’t believe you,_ he thought at Sherlock in awe as he smoothed his hands over Sherlock’s bare skin.  _Chocolate kisses._ He rocked his hips into Sherlock’s stomach and moaned as the spike of lust bounced between their connection in echoes.  _An anniversary present._ He slid his mouth down Sherlock’s mouth to the junction of jaw and neck, pleased when the chocolate coating moved with him.  _God, you’re absolutely unbelievable sometimes. I love you I love you_ I love you.

Sherlock’s form wavered beneath his, and John felt a tingle of pleasure somehow just like human lust and yet nothing like it at all. “Sorry,” Sherlock gasped, voice distorted as his skin writhed underneath John’s touch. “I’m trying to hold this form, but you’re— _distracting._ ”

Well. If that wasn’t a compliment, John didn’t know what was. He forced his thoughts clear of the spiral of desire long enough to analyse his own comfort with Sherlock’s alien form and came to a decision.  _It’s fine,_ he thought back.  _You’re you, no matter the form. Relax and enjoy this._ To emphasise the point, he bit down on Sherlock’s collarbone, noting the way the skin compressed more than a human’s would, and sucked at the never-ending chocolate coating.

He was hit a moment later with a surge of the alien pleasure from seconds before, and Sherlock’s body roiled underneath him as he dropped the illusion of humanity, leaving only an approximation of a human face behind. To John’s relief, the tendrils winding up his back and around his shoulder blades gave him the same thrill as Sherlock’s hands would have, and he returned to kissing the mouth that opened easily under his own.

Voiceless though he was like this, Sherlock made his opinion known through the emotional exchange through their skin, and the questioning desire that came a few minutes later was accompanied by a hesitant press against the waist of John’s jeans. The muscles all along John’s spine tightened and relaxed in a wave, driving him down against Sherlock’s body. “Yes—god, yes,” he hissed, and he lifted his hips. Sherlock draped a tentacle around John’s shoulders and nape, pulling his head down for a searing kiss while several tendrils pushed John’s jeans and pants down to his knees.

The relief was immediate and intense; John moaned into the kiss and thrust against Sherlock, and  _oh_ that was an odd sensation. The unusual texture of Sherlock’s skin was slicker and smoother than human skin, and when John tried it again, Sherlock wrapped around him. John’s breath stuttered as his cock was fooled into thinking it was penetrating a woman.

“ _Jesus,”_ he gasped, pulling back to gape down at Sherlock. Half a second later, the spike in lust was reflected back at him through the connection, and he nearly buckled under the onslaught. “Give me…a second,” he panted.

A hint of concern weaved through the overwhelming pleasure, and John dismissed it with a hint of comfort and a quirked lip. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he admitted, drawing back into position. “Do it again?”

They built up their rhythm quickly enough after that; between the cloying chocolate taste on John’s tongue, John penetrating the curl of Sherlock’s grip and Sherlock penetrating John’s heart, it was a matter of minutes before everything spiralled out of control. John rocked against Sherlock one last time and gripped the cushions of the sofa with white knuckles as he shattered. Below him, Sherlock writhed and latched onto John, clenching their bodies together as the aftershocks of the shared orgasm faded.

John panted as he came down, and he closed his eyes to focus on the dying frenzy of their emotional connection. He could almost feel Sherlock withdrawing from the total openness they’d had—a very odd sensation, indeed, much like an itch at the base of his brain—and he twitched. “That was incredible,” he slurred into the throat reforming below his cheek. It was true: While the physical side of it was surprisingly vanilla, considering Sherlock’s many versatile limbs, the mental and emotional aspect more than made up for any lack.  _Besides, there’ll be time to explore that later._ His skin tingled at the thought.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured when he’d gotten his voice back. “It was…I never even imagined that anything could feel like that.” He rolled his body gently underneath John’s, arms branching and twining across John’s back. “You are beautiful, John. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“I love you,” John said simply, kissing away the traces of chocolate on Sherlock’s lips. That done, he rested his head under Sherlock’s chin and smiled. “Happy anniversary, you madman.”

“May there be many more to come.”

* * *

Six months later:

"Hello, Dr. Watson." The man at the door shuffled his recorder, notepad, and laptop bag into one arm so that they could shake hands. "It's a pleasure to meet you; on behalf of the BBC, thank you for agreeing to give your perspective of the last few years. You'll understand when I say that it really is the story of the century." He shook his head as if to rid himself of a distraction. "Sorry, my name is Arthur Doyle; I'm going to be the lead screenwriter for the documentary."

"Just call me John, please. It's good to meet you, too." John invited the man in and settled him on the couch so he could spread his things out over the coffee table.

While John went to fetch some tea for the two of them—he knew his throat was bound to be hoarse after telling _ this _ tale—Sherlock oozed down the stairs and slipped past the startled writer. He reformed and leaned over the back of John's armchair. John watched Arthur's reaction from the kitchen with amusement. "Good morning," the alien greeted Arthur.

"Morning," Arthur said in a remarkable steady voice, considering how wide his eyes were. "It's an honour to meet you. You're Sherlock, I presume?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth drifted up in a smirk, but he nodded silently. John returned with the tea and nudged Sherlock playfully as he took his seat. "Sherlock, this is Arthur," he introduced. No need to explain why the man was there; Sherlock would have figured it out within seconds of seeing the man's equipment and put it together with their agreement with the BBC. It had only been finalized the week before, after all. "So, Arthur, how exactly should I go about this?"

Arthur placed the recorder facing John on the table and turned it on; he set up the laptop and grabbed a biro for his notepad. When he'd settled again, he nodded to John. "Why don't you start from when you first met the aliens?" he suggested. "We can go from there."

"Alright, though I didn't meet Mycroft until later." John tossed a grin over his shoulder to Sherlock; the alien smiled back and shifted so his arm rested against the back of John's neck. "I was stationed in Afghanistan—I was a doctor in the RAMC—and I'd been working on a man with a bullet wound in his shoulder when I heard—or rather, felt—the shockwave...."


End file.
